


The Walking Wounded (those who travel fast and alone)

by natacup82, withoutmaps



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-19
Updated: 2009-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natacup82/pseuds/natacup82, https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutmaps/pseuds/withoutmaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete and Brendon swap houses after break-ups. The Holiday AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walking Wounded (those who travel fast and alone)

**Author's Note:**

> We’ve been kicking this idea around since 2008. It started as an incredibly long series of all capslock emails and evolved into this. Many thanks to [](http://gobsmackit.livejournal.com/profile)[**gobsmackit**](http://gobsmackit.livejournal.com/) and [](http://stealstheashes.livejournal.com/profile)[**stealstheashes**](http://stealstheashes.livejournal.com/) for the excellent beta work and not running away in horror at the crimes against punctuation. Also special thanks to [](http://jukeboxromeo.livejournal.com/profile)[**jukeboxromeo**](http://jukeboxromeo.livejournal.com/) for many late nights on gchat while this was coming together. Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/bandombigbang/profile)[**bandombigbang**](http://community.livejournal.com/bandombigbang/) 2009.

Pete knows his thing with Alicia is over when he looks up as he's going down on her - he'd been going to town, doing this rolling thing with his tongue that a guy at work had told him about; he was _awesome_ at giving head - and saw her fucking texting, like she was getting a pedicure or something.

"What the fuck, are you _texting_?" Pete asks because seriously, what the actual _fuck_.

"Do you want me to moan or something, just finish up or whatever," Alicia says, eyes leaving her sidekick screen for barely a second.

Pete sits up on his knees, pissed. "Seriously, what is your problem? I was doing some great stuff down here."

Alicia rolls her eyes, shifts up a little higher in bed and puts down her Sidekick.

"Want me to show you what you were actually doing? From the perspective of my vag? Because I can," Alicia says, annoyed.

Pete nods, he seriously doubts he could have been doing anything _that_ wrong.

She puts up her hands like she's about to mime being stuck in a box, sticks out her tongue and shakes her head from side to side fast, making this _blaaaaagh_ sound.

Pete's almost speechless, can't believe that she would actually make that sound effect, that she thinks that's what it's like when he gives head. He is fucking _excellent_ at giving head, to girls or guys. There must be something wrong with her fucking clit.

When he says this out loud she just starts laughing, hands going up over her mouth when a snort slips out, laughing until her face is red and tears are just starting to slip out of her eyes.

They break up the next morning.

It's not that Pete is the kind of guy that can't take his girlfriend telling him what he's doing wrong, but he's not going to sit there while she laughs at him. That is just too far.

Pete tries to stay civil, tries not to be openly hostile because they work together and he already has more than enough workplace drama.

They stay friends, kind of. The kind of friends that don't see each other outside of work and don't do anything alone and it's fine.

*

Shane was a friend of a friend of a friend and Brendon met him at some party, in a dark corner of someone's backyard where, despite whatever Jon and Ryan say, he wasn't hiding. He'd gone out to get some fresh air, maybe smoke though he had no cigarettes and didn't want to interrupt any of the number of conversations going on around him. So he'd retreated, drifting around the edges of groups until he ended up backed up against the house in his own little niche. Shane found him there.

Brendon watched the way Shane took him in, eyes tracing the line of his chest down into his hips and all the way to his shoes. It sent a shiver through him and after a brief second of eye contact Shane offered him a cigarette.

Then, Shane was a small-time independent filmmaker; now, he's got three big Hollywood hits under his belt and he's working on his fourth, early mornings on a set across town. He gets home early afternoon when Brendon's still in the studio and it's not until Brendon finishes for the night, telling Greta that he's "just going to work on this one last thing" just before she finally drags him out the door and pushes him down the stairs. She always says, "Go hang out with your boyfriend, Urie," and Brendon finds comfort in the familiarity.

Neither of them are the type to have dinner ready and waiting on the table. Cooking anything more difficult than spaghetti is often a reach so Brendon's never surprised when it's takeout or some fancy new restaurant that opened last week.

"Hey," he says, finding Shane sprawled across the couch. Shane looks comfortable wherever he is and Brendon's always envied him that, that calm that makes blending into crowds easy and seamless.

Brendon puts one knee on the couch and then awkwardly straddles Shane's waist. "Hi, hey," he says again and Shane smiles up at him, curling his fingers into the hem of Brendon's shirt.

"Hey, B," Shane says and the press of their lips is easy, just like always.

*

Pete meets Mikey at the end of May; the weather is just starting to get really warm. It's the best time to fall in like.

Mikey and his brother have just come over from New York as the latest transfers from the big international merger that's had people all over the magazine on edge. But Pete's always glad to hear another American voice, to hear someone, anyone who sounds like a little piece of home.

They start out as friends. They hangout every day at lunch talking about music, toys they had as kids, about a million different things that mean nothing and everything.

One day when Pete isn't really paying attention they're more. They're holding hands when they leave for lunch, taking smoke breaks to make out in Pete's car and they're sleeping together more than they're sleeping alone.

Mikey is mostly hard to read; he's quiet, but not in a shy way, exactly. He talks when he feels like it and texts Pete more often than not - it should maybe be a warning sign that they do most of their communicating via text - and even though he's got some bad associations with texting (Pete can't control the times when Alicia flashes into his mind), he loves his Sidekick and he'll take any opportunity to use it.

It's like Mikey is always watching things, making connections that most people might not see, even though he has a tendency not to notice the most obvious things - like how you should not stick knives in the toaster, it was only a tiny shock - it's cool because he finds the best ways to surprise Pete, to give him things he wants but hasn't figured out how to ask for.

They've been together maybe two months as of mid-August, and even though it's already that part of summer that starts to bleed into fall, Pete is still referring to their relationship so far as the "Summer of Like." He thinks that it's time he took things to the next level, showed Mikey another little piece of himself that's he's held separate.

Pete waits until after their date that Friday night, waits until they're both a little sleepy from good food, just winding down from a shitty band. He takes Mikey's hand says, "I need to show you something."

Mikey says, "Okay," eyes wide behind his glasses. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's great," Pete says jumping up and heading upstairs. "I'll be right back."

Pete tries to find the perfect suit, the one least likely to freak Mikey out too much. Plus he wants, needs this to be special. He knows this isn't exactly the most normal aspect of his personality but it's apart of him and if this thing with Mikey is going to any further he at least needs to know.

Pete picks out one of the bear suits; one with detachable hands and feet so he can easily get in and out of it if things go wrong.

"Close your eyes!" Pete yells before he makes his way down the stairs; the cottage is small and there's no way Mikey wouldn't see him coming from the living room.

Pete waddles - because it's almost impossible to fit in the small space of the stairs with that much extra bulk - down the stairs and into the living room. He stops when he's in front of Mikey, puts his hands on his hips and says, "Okay, open your eyes," trying not to let the nervousness that's been building color his voice.

Mikey's silent for a while, too long for it to mean anything good.

"Mikey?"

"Sorry I just. Uh what?" Mikey asks, confused.

"I just. Sometimes I like to wear costumes. With animals. But I mean. If you don't want. It's." Pete stops, takes off the head because he feels fucking ridiculous, and says, "It's fine if you think it's weird."

"No, no, no, its not. This is just kind of. So this is." Mikey pauses, briefly. "Is it an _I like to wear costumes_ thing or an _I like to wear costumes before or during sex_ thing?"

Pete laughs, rubs one paw over his head, and says, "All of the above? Or both. I just like it."

"Okay. So you want to? With the bear thing on?"

Pete sits down next to Mikey - the couch isn't really big enough to hold Pete in costume and another person but Mikey weighs about ten pounds so they almost fit - and sighs. "We don't have to do anything you don't want." Pete creeps one paw clad hand over to Mikey's knee, testing the waters a little bit.

Mikey covers Pete's paw with his hand, tugging at the fingers until the paw slips off and laces their fingers together, saying, "Maybe we should just take things slow, okay?"

Pete says, "Yeah, sure," leaning over to kiss Mikey lightly at first, their lips pressing together quickly. He keeps his one paw covered hand to himself; he's not quite ready to give it up.

It's not like he's hiding. Pete's never been one to hide much at all, has always been quick to share too much, but this makes him comfortable, makes him feel like he's closer to the real Pete and not the character that writes articles and walks through half of his life.

They kiss and kiss, each kiss getting a little wetter, a little deeper, until Mikey's got one hand loosely fisted in Pete's hair, until Pete is slowly fighting with the stupidly unnecessary belt buckle on Mikey's jeans. It takes some work and Pete is wishing a little that he didn't still have most of the bear suit on; that its bulk wasn't making this take longer than usual but eventually he gets it undone, hand slipping into Mikey's pants and gripping his dick.

Pete jerks Mikey off fast to get the edge off, to get them out of the awkward part of the night. He doesn't lick his hand, doesn't reach for the lube he hid in the couch cushions after their second official date, letting pre-come ease the way.

It's going as well as it always does, Mikey tightening his grip in Pete's hair, not caring that he's hanging out of his pants, but Pete's hand slips a little and the arm of his suit, the part still covered in fake bear fur, brushes across the head of Mikey's dick and he just stops.

He recovers quickly and Pete goes along with it, pretends like he didn't feel Mikey go stiff, like Mikey pulled away from his mouth just to try to catch his breath, not because he was grossed out or disgusted or something.

It takes a long time to get Mikey off after that, it's awkward and weird and the quiet is strange.

After, Pete lies about getting off on watching Mikey and Mikey gives Pete a lame excuse, some quick, "I forgot I have to go meet up with Gee," and leaves.

*

It's not really a break-up.

There's no yelling, no screaming, no broken CDs and clothes strewn across the yard. They just stop.

Mikey stops coming around after work, Pete stops drifting by Mikey's desk seven times a day, stops dragging him out at lunch to make out.

They don't call it a break-up, they whisper empty promises about a break, about taking some time. All the little things Pete wants to hear even though he knows it's not true.

Pete falls back into his old habits - staying up all night, stumbling into work with dark circles under his eyes.

He's sad, exhausted and alone and he doesn't even notice when he accidentally introduces Mikey to Alicia, when he almost walks into them leaving for lunch together. It just slips right by for days, weeks.

It's months later before Pete notices, the last of the summer heat long faded away into fall when Pete sees them holding hands, sees Alicia kissing Mikey or Mikey kissing Alicia - he's not really sure which is worse - and feels his future slipping away as the light catches on the ring Alicia's wearing, the lie that's been a mantra in his head finally going quiet.

Pete finds a house-swapping website that night - one that he had talked about with Alicia, about taking some great adventure into the unknown - and even though it might be sketchy, he uploads a couple of quick pictures of the cottage and hopes for the best.

He needs to be far away from London, away from magazines and wedding announcements, away from the million different reminders of how he's failed.

*

Brendon's surprised by how it ends. Silent and not exactly easy, but easier than he would have thought, easier than their entire relationship up until that point.

Nights spent at premiers or parties, mingling with each month's Next Big Thing, their relationship has never been quiet. All bright lights and big city and Brendon, well. Brendon's always been loud, voice rising above the fray without even meaning to. Shane never seemed to mind, though. He'd smile and smile, and sometimes say, "I really wish you'd come with a mute button." He wasn't ever serious, Brendon knew.

Brendon just couldn't ever manage to turn himself down. Not even when it was late, when they'd been out for hours and it was time to settle, time to sleep. He's never been very good at settling, but Shane's always been right there with him. Shane's always been right there, good at easing Brendon into sleep, into some sort of stillness with just enough peace to find his own. They were rare, those moments of stillness, and now Brendon has to force himself not to dwell on them.

He thinks about their fights instead. Noisy and rough, neither of them very good at communication, but this. This is it.

It ends quiet and easy, with Shane frowning, angry and resentful and refusing to voice any of it, and the soft _snick_ of the front door shutting behind him. There is no yelling and Brendon doesn't throw anything, not Shane's camera and not his computer - the two things that own Shane's attention more than Brendon ever could.

The house is eerily silent when Shane's gone, _really gone,_ and Brendon fills it with lists. Things he can do now that he's single, jobs that he can take now that he doesn't have dinner plans or movie premiers to go to, and, most of all, the things he's done wrong over the last six and a half years. He makes list after list of things he should have done, things he never should have said. It doesn't make him feel better, not really, but it gives him something to do in between writing scores.

Finally, after a week of lists and silence, Brendon tells his assistants to take a vacation, take a few weeks off. He thinks about escaping, running away until he can forget the look on Shane's face, the easy way he'd said, "Well, I guess that's it then."

He wanders around the house aimlessly for a while after they leave, Greta throwing him concerned looks over her shoulder before she consented to leave him alone. He thinks about Shane and six years, _six fucking years._ They never fully moved in together, not even after six years, and there are still shirts in the closet that aren't his, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom next to his. There's still the memory of Shane, but the important things are gone. Shane never sold his house across town and Brendon never wanted to give this place up. Not just give up the studio or the movie room, but having his own sort of independence, having a place that was just his and not his and Shane's. Before he can think too hard on that, he cranks up the stereo and flips open his computer. He's got to get the fuck out of Los Angeles.

*

In just under three hours of surfing Brendon's found four total scams, two Alaskan cruises, and has an email from Patrick pop up about working on another movie. He doesn't want to do another movie; he can feel the burnout of working too much for too long creeping up his veins. He needs a break, a break from L.A. and movies and everything that reminds him of Shane.

He's just about ready to give up when a link in the Gmail sidebar catches his eye. It's probably a scam, they all seem to be, but Brendon's resigned to finding some sort of distraction at this point and it wouldn't hurt to look.

He clicks on the link, not expecting to find anything worthwhile. It says _Looking for an inexpensive vacation? Look no further!!!_ with, yes, three exclamation points, and while Brendon is totally a three-exclamation-point guy, he has a vague sense of professionalism, and three exclamation points, well that doesn't exactly scream "professional." He's never actually heard of house-swapping and it sounds sketch enough _without_ the exclamation points, sketch enough that Brendon is surprised when it turns out to be pretty legit-looking. He surfs around the site for a while, reading testimonials that sound just as fake as most testimonials seem to, and clicking through some of the offered homes.

The weirdest part is, and Brendon's been looking at the site for, shit, almost two hours when he realizes, is that it doesn't seem like a scam. It seems completely legit, and when he realizes that, Brendon picks one.

Brendon picks a tiny place outside of London and he thinks it'll be nice to not be in a city, different cities for once, to be away from the crowds and noise. _Cozy Cottage_ , the header reads, and Brendon thinks it sounds just about perfect. He clicks on the email button and he's not sure what to say exactly -- everything he comes up with just sounds awkward -- but he's almost finished when he sees _peter pan is available for chat_ at the bottom of the screen.

Brendon's not sure if he should. Surely instant message would be just as awkward as e-mail, and this could be his chance to get out of California. He clicks _Chat_ before he can stop himself.

*

Pete's just dicking around online, clicking stupid links on Yahoo and trying to find a cheap way to get out of England. He's reading an article about Angelina and her new kid when his Gmail tab starts flashing.

 _bdenurie: hey?_

 _peterpan: hey_

 _peterpan: what are you wearing?_

 _bdenurie: what? why?_

 _peterpan: just curious. i have to know your style before i tell you about my house man_

 _bdenurie: black skinny jeans and a t-shirt that says Rock is dead and paper killed it_

 _bdenurie: is that acceptable? what if i was wearing like_

 _bdenurie: tweed and scarves??_

 _peterpan: dude_

 _peterpan: dude, that is just wrong. scarves, sure. even tweed, but not together, man._

 _bdenurie: lol_

 _bdenurie: you should meet ryan. hed break your brain with all the tweed and scarves and random weird shit_

 _peterpan: is that one of the 'all this and much more' ill get if i swap with you and go whereever you are. where are you anyway?_

 _bdenurie: LA._

 _peterpan: brightskies and beautiful people_

 _bdenurie: yeah, to some people. not for me, not right now._

 _peterpan: yeah._

 _bdenurie: i really need to get out of here for a while_

 _peterpan: yeah, what's your place like? my pictures dont lie this place is kind of small. my mom calls it cozy_

 _bdenurie: my house is bigger but not like bigbig. just. i work from home sometimes so it has space for an office_

 _peterpan: thats cool. i've got a dog, he kind of runs the house_

 _peterpan: so when do you wanna do this? im thinking book a flight tommorrow and kiss this feeling goodbye_

 _bdenurie: are you serious? thats really short notice dude_

 _peterpan: come on man, carpe felis! lets do this_

 _bdenurie: you know that means seize the cat right?_

 _bdenurie: okay. fuck it. lets go_

 _peterpan: i knew i liked you. i'll email my info over, this is going to be great_

 

Pete signs off almost smiling for the first time in days, finds this Brendon dude's e-mail, and pops something off quickly with his address, phone number, where he'll stash the keys and how to treat Hemingway like the tiny king he is before going back to the tab for Travelocity.

It doesn't take him long to find a flight. It's not exactly cheap but it means he only has to go to work one more day before he can get on a plane and get far, far away, so he buys it and doesn't look back.

Pete e-mails his boss, lets him know that he's taking the four weeks in vacation time that he's got built up, so that way no one will mistake him for the undead for a while, and tries to remember if he needs to tell anyone else.

He hasn't really slept in four days; his eyes have gone scratchy and dry and his brain is running too fast and too slow and Pete can barely focus at all. He gets distracted when Brendon's e-mail pops up with way too many exclamation points for four o'clock in the morning. There's not much: the address to his place, how to get into the gate, and -the part with the most exclamation points - how psyched Brendon is for this, how perfect it is. Pete thinks maybe perfect is a strong word, but it's _four in the fucking morning_ and he still has to go to work before he can catch that plane.

*

Brendon books his flight and then goes to pack his shit. He calls Greta when he's not sure which plaid button-down he should take (there's the blue one and the green one and a red one he hasn't had the chance to wear yet.) Shane used to make fun of them, his indie-kid shirts, gently teasing as he pulled Brendon out of them. So instead of thinking about that, about Shane's steady hands and his smile easy, Brendon calls Greta.

They talk about their most recent movie, the one they finished the day after Shane left, and the one Patrick's working on now, some romantic comedy that's turning out to be a lot more challenging than he expected. They talk about work and they gossip for a while. Brendon doesn't tell her about England until just before they're about to disconnect.

He goes for casual but he's pretty sure he only manages scared-sounding, "I'm going to England," he says.

There's silence on the other end when Brendon just wants her to say something. He twists his fingers in the hem of his shirt and bites into his lower lip. He says her name and Greta hums low.

"How long?" she asks finally and Brendon huffs out a breath.

"I'm not-I mean, a month."

"A month." Brendon can't read her tone and it's not like he needs her approval, but he needs--something. After a moment, she asks, "Have you told Jon?"

Brendon shakes his head and says, "No, not yet." He wasn't even freaking out about it, not before when he talked to Pete and not when he bought the ticket. He is now. Just a little, but still.

Greta's silent and Brendon knows she's judging him. He says, "I'll tell him, okay," and all he gets in response is another soft hum.

"Quit judging me, Greta Salpeter," Brendon says, sticking his tongue out even though she can't see. She laughs and the sudden tension is gone.

*

"I'm not running," Brendon says, quiet, before Jon even has the chance to reply.

"Hey, hey, I didn't say that," Jon says, pauses, and then, "You know, I wouldn't blame you if you were."

"Jon."

"Dude, come on." Jon's been his friend since he first got to L.A., when Brendon was living week-to-week on money that was nowhere near enough and couch-surfing through the greater half of the city. Brendon crashed with co-workers and friends of friends bouncing from place to place and he had spent too much time living in someone else's place trying not to take up _too_ much space. That's how he'd met Jon and Ryan.

Their condo had an extra bedroom, they'd said -- "Ryan wants a studio, but the neighbors would kill us" -- and Brendon's didn't ask, but he's pretty sure they charged him nowhere near what the room was actually worth. And he never asked, but he's mentioned it once or twice since, paying them back for everything, and the looks on their faces are always priceless.

"Shane's been gone for what? Two days?" Brendon doesn't say anything, body going still. Jon's quiet for a bit and then finally he says, "A break would be good, is all I'm saying."

"A break," Brendon echoes. He and Shane could have taken a break, could have talked about things and maybe they wouldn't be here. Brendon wouldn't be going off to England, _running away,_ and Shane would still be here, still be with him.

 _No,_ Brendon tells himself, cutting off that train of thought. He's not going to do this, can't. He's going to go to England and take his own fucking break.

*

Pete's used to going to work on little-to-no sleep, but it's hard counting down the hours until he can leave for the airport. He's heading out straight from work, has his bags packed and ready to go under his desk.

He doesn't tell anyone at work, especially not Mikey or Alicia. Pete hurries past Mikey's office, past Alicia silhouetted against the blinds. The door opens just a crack, like one of them is about to come out and Pete makes a quick decision, ducking into the bathroom.

It's not hiding, it's just a tactical retreat to safer ground. Pete really doesn't need to talk to either of them right now, not when he's just hours away from freedom. He can't remember what it's like to not feel like there's a 50 pound weight sitting on his chest slowly getting heavier and heavier until it's ready to make his heart cave in but he can't wait to find out.

The day goes by in fits and starts, speeding up only to drag by later. Pete feels like he's been in the office maybe ten or twelve hours when four o'clock finally rolls around and he finally shuts down his computer and makes a bee-line for the door.

He dodges a few people - Gerard, that Rob kid who never washes his hair, and a few other nosy busybodies who would have a million different questions about why Pete Wentz finally decided to take a vacation.

Normally Pete has no problem talking to people, talking at people for however long until they either forgot what they wanted or wandered off annoyed but he's over it. He doesn't have to care because there's a plane ticket in his pocket and soon he'll be on his way, a whole ocean and world away.

Pete doesn't sleep on the plane. He tries, keeps shifting and moving and trying to get comfy but it's just like at home. He settles in with his headphones, a book and hopes the 11 hour flight passes by quickly, that he can hop across the world in the blink of an eye.

*

Pete got on the plane bundled up in layers and layers of warmth. He has on two hoodies and a jacket he got from his mom last Christmas. It's warm enough on the plane that he can shed the first layer, and when he lands in L.A. the second one comes off. L.A. isn't warm exactly, the breeze tugging at Pete's too-long bangs when he steps onto the sidewalk, but it is warm by Pete's standards, by his stuck-up American-expat-living-in-England, former-Chicago-kid standards. He loves it already.

It's not hard to catch a cab, but Pete got an hour, maybe two, of eyes closed not quite sleep on the flight and his brain is fuzzy, blurry. He leans his head against the window and dozes, the wonders of L.A. lost while the lack of sleep finally catches up with him.

That's probably why the ride to Brendon's seems to take roughly five minutes. One minute Pete's saying goodbye to the airport, fingers drifting over the window pane, and the next he's opening his eyes to a house at least three times the size of his own tiny cottage.

"You know how to open this thing?" the cab driver asks, eying Pete maybe a little suspiciously. Pete digs through his pockets, trying to remember if he wrote down the code Brendon gave him. He can't remember, still half-asleep, but the crinkled scrap of paper he finally turns up has four numbers on it and, well. It's worth a try. He punches in the number and then again when he hits the four instead of the five and the little box beeps angrily at him. Pete swears a little, narrowing his eyes at the damn thing, but after a second the gate swings open gracefully.

The cab eases up the short driveway and Pete finally gets a good look at the house. It's huge, two stories tall and. There's no way this is what Pete was expecting. This, this is a fucking mansion and Pete was thinking a little condo, maybe a bungalow. Definitely not this.

Pete practically falls out of the cab, still staring up at the house in front of him. He pays and says, starts to say, "Are you sure-," but the cab is already pulling away, leaving Pete and his bags stranded in a place that can't be right. He double-, triple-checks the numbers and they match; it could be.

Brendon said that he'd hide the key in one of the potted plants out front, left of the door, third one in, and at this point it can't hurt to check. It's either this is the right place and Pete is the luckiest bastard in the world or he's trespassing on someone's sweet-ass property. At least it's not like that's never happened before.

The key is easy to find and it's starting to sink in a little that this is the right place, that Pete is spending a fucking month in this place.

"Fuck," he says when the door swings open. The entryway is warm and inviting, all light wood flooring and dark furniture. It's gorgeous and Pete might just stay here forever.

*

When Brendon steps out of the airport in London it's cold, dark and rainy. It's so far from what he left at home that he almost doesn't care that his jacket is too thin, and his hands are so cold he's wondering how long it takes for frostbite to settle in.

He gets a cab, gives the driver the address, and tries not to drift off to sleep as they hit the road. They drive away from the city, away from crowds and buses, away from everything that kind of feels familiar, that has even the slightest bit of the same feel as L.A.

The driver has music on, something low and bluesy that, Brendon's never heard before. And it helps him relax a little, the idea that maybe he'll hear more new music, that he'll get a taste of what new thing is driving people to create, maybe something that will inspire him.

They drive for what feels like forever, but Brendon's jet lagged and cold, knows it can't have been that long - Pete specifically said the cottage was maybe 45 minutes outside of the city -and he drifts off for a while, lets the world zipping by outside his window lull him to sleep.

Brendon wakes up when the car stops. He looks out both windows but he doesn't see anything that looks like the pictures online; nothing even looks close.

"Hey, why did we stop?" he asks, nervousness bleeding into his voice. There's no traffic, no other cars even on the road and this guy, this **cab** seemed like they were on the up and up however many miles ago when they were leaving the airport but Brendon's lived in cities for years and he knows that shit happens.

The driver - Brendon's been calling him Dan in his head, Dan the Cab Driver Man because he's always been shitty at names - says, "If I go up this road I'll have to keep going well past the cottage before I'd be able to turn 'round." And before Brendon can get a word out to argue, the trunk gets popped and Dan is outside.

Brendon gets out of the car, reluctantly because he is still only wearing a thin jacket over his hoodie, and tries to talk his way out of this, because this is not okay. There is snow on the ground, he can see his breath every time he exhales or talks and he is wearing _fucking cowboy boots._

This was just not a day to walk.

But for once Brendon's charm doesn't work, Dan just doesn't care. He pats Brendon on the arm, saying, "You're young, healthy. It'll be fine," and points him down a long snowy road that will supposedly lead right to the cottage.

*

Clearly the whole 'it's right down the road' thing was a vicious lie. Brendon has had to ask three different people for directions, has fallen once on ice under the not-so-deep snow and he's pretty sure his feet are going to detach themselves in protest for having to walk two miles in what used to be his favorite pair of boots. He's reached the point where the only thing he can think is that he passed it, that it was down one of those tiny little side streets instead of right on the road like everyone's said.

He keeps walking, pulling his suitcase behind him, almost hoping for sweet merciful death or at least a sign that he's still heading in the right direction.

Brendon's about to give up when he spots a small house a few feet up the road. It looks familiar, like the picture Pete posted online, but he's been walking for a long time and he's almost afraid it's a mirage.

There's a little sign on the front gate that reads, 'Clandestine Cottage,' and just beyond the gate is the little house from the picture. It's set back a bit from the street, with a stone walkway and snow-covered front yard. It could be a mirage, still, but Brendon touches the gate and it feels real, solid.

Brendon breathes a sigh of relief and heads in.

Two steps in and the place is fucking _tiny,_ kitchen on top of dining room on top of living room and then the skinniest staircase Brendon's ever seen. And Brendon - his first-ever apartment, a shit-hole a few blocks away from Jon and Ryan's place, was tiny, smaller than this - is pretty sure this place could fit in his backyard back home. With room to spare.

He drops his shit right inside the door, too tired, and cold, to even think about unpacking. His feet feel like two solid blocks of ice, and his hands are clumsy, uncoordinated. He's struggling, tugging at the scarf wrapped around his neck, the one he picked up in the airport because he's never really needed one in L.A., when he meets Hemingway: big, lolling tongue and fifty pounds of dog slobber. Brendon nearly trips, hands caught up in the scarf that won't come undone and Hemingway, _Hemmy,_ Pete wrote, wiggling in between and around his legs. He nearly pitches face forward, but then Hemingway steps back, stub of a tail wagging his whole back half, and Brendon gets his feet back under him, gets the scarf off.

"Well," he says, and Hemingway's tail just wags harder.

Brendon can feel the jet lag seeping in, clogging up his head and making everything a little more difficult. He's managed to pull his suitcase all the way to the foot of the staircase and instead of dragging it up the small flight of stairs it's sitting open, the top layer of clothes a mess from when Brendon was searching for his bag of toiletries. He leaves it there, forgoing any sort of formal tour in favor of sleep. He'd planned on shedding his clothes, used to sleeping naked, but after losing the topmost layer he can feel the chill setting in right along with the jet lag so he curls up in Pete's bed with most of his clothes still on.

His jeans are too tight, belly cold from where his shirt's twisted up, and Brendon's so tired that he can't sleep.

Brendon's not sure how long he's been laying there, staring at the wall, when Hemingway pads in, dog tags clicking with each step. He cocks his head at Brendon and Brendon stretches his fingers out to the edge of the bed, wiggles them in the dog's direction. Hemingway gives a whuff of a response that Brendon makes smile a little.

After a long minute of staring, Hemingway stretches out on the floor, nose between his paws, and closes his eyes. Brendon says, "Easy as that, huh," and feels sort of pathetic.

*

Pete wanders around the house, stopping to stare at the giant flat screen TV, at the bookcases that circle the living room. Each one is filled with something different, one for books, for DVDs, for CDs. There's even one whole wall with nothing but vinyl and he has to stop and stare for a second, has to whisper, "I like this kid," before wandering off to check out something new.

He doesn't bother moving his suitcase, just leaves it in the entryway and somewhere in the back of his mind Pete wants to know how a house is so fucking big that he can leave his suitcase in the middle of the floor, just inside the door, and never trip back over it as he makes his way around all the rooms on the first floor.

Pete heads upstairs, finds the editing room, the music room, stopping to run his fingers over a bass guitar, remembering back all those years ago, before he went to visit his sister in London and never came home.

It's weird to think about the life he could have had, about how different things would be if he'd spent his late twenties riding around the country in vans, trying to make it, hoping people would hear his words, would understand.

Pete doesn't regret the choices he's made. He might not be happy - he lies awake some nights thinking about the rush of performing, of being on stage even if the stage was just a cleared-out corner of someones basement - but he likes writing about music, likes getting paid to go to shows and having people respect his opinions enough to put them in print.

He doesn't linger too long, doesn't want to get trapped running through what ifs and coulda beens. Pete moves on, still exhausted from the flight, from too many days without sleep and then he finds the bedroom and the biggest bed he's ever seen outside of maybe his parents' house in Chicago.

And suddenly it's like he's not an insomniac, like everything that's happened over the last few days, the last few months are catching up with him all at once until Pete can't really think of anything better than sinking into the big soft bed.

Pete kicks off his shoes, pulls his hoodie up and over his head, collapses into bed and for the first time in a long time, he sleeps.

*

Pete wakes up to a buzzing sound, not really sure where he is or how long he's been asleep.

It takes a little while for him to remember that he's in L.A., far away from everything that's gone wrong in his life, that he's in a strange house in a strange _but awesome_ bed and that he has no fucking idea where the buzzing is coming from since he clearly remembers leaving his Sidekick downstairs.

He opens his eyes and then shuts them quickly because it's bright, too too bright, sun flooding in the windows.

Pete tries again, opening his eyes slowly and sees a little red light on the phone by the bed blinking and slaps a hand in its general direction hoping to hit 'speaker phone'.

"Yeah?" Pete asks, drawing out the _aahh_ so whoever is calling or at the gate or doing whatever can know how annoyed he is that they've managed to interrupt the first sleep he's gotten in close to a week.

"Brendon, the gate's not working right, I need you to let me in," the evil, sunlight-bringing guy says.

"Dude, Brendon's not here. He'll be back in a month. Come back then, okay?" Pete says, then hangs up and tries to get back to sleep.

The buzzing starts back up almost immediately, before Pete even has a chance to let his head drift back down to the (possibly down-filled) pillows.

Pete hits the speakerphone again, and asks, "Man, what?"

"Who is this?" the same guy from before asks.

Pete almost rolls his eyes, says, "This is Pete. Who is this? Are you the ex?"

There's laughing in the background for a second, sounding like a girl, and the guy sputtering and then, "This is not the ex. This is the Patrick - I mean this is Patrick, my name is Patrick. I work with Brendon and I need to pick some work stuff up. Now can you please open the fucking gate?"

"See, all you had to do was explain, man," Pete smiles to himself a little; he can hear the guy sputtering again like he's just gearing up to yell. "As soon as I figure out how, I will open the gate," Pete says, and then starts pressing random buttons until something happens, until he hears the guy-Patrick-says, "Finally."

*

Brendon gives up after an hour. Hemingway had given up on the floor after only a few minutes and jumped up onto the bed, sprawling next to Brendon, warm and solid. He fell so easily to sleep, so quickly that Brendon couldn't help being sort of jealous.

The tiny house is cold and quiet when he finally crawls out of bed, and Brendon can't hear much beyond his and Hemingway's breathing, slow and easy. Even after he's gone downstairs to find the heater, the only sound is the quiet shuffling of his socked feet on wood floors and the clicking of Hemingway's, always a step or two behind. It's kind of comforting, Brendon thinks, shivering.

The heater doesn't respond when he first turns it on and Brendon, he's so fucking tired that he keeps thinking maybe it's a sign he shouldn't be here, maybe he should have stayed in L.A. and just dealt with Shane leaving. Brendon presses his hands against his face, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes, and curses quietly. He breathes in big once and then again. He thinks about counting to ten, but he's pretty sure it won't make the shit cycling through his brain go away so he doesn't, he just curses again, a low fuck, and flips the heater off and on again. It doesn't so much as grunt and Brendon feels this stupid surge of frustration. A working heater is not too much to ask for, he thinks, as he tries one more time, adding in a weak kick for good measure. This time the heater does turn on and Brendon curls his fingers into a fist in something like triumph.

It takes a while to warm the little cottage up, and Brendon bundles himself into the thickest hoodie he brought and makes himself some coffee. By the time it's ready he's warmed up some and even braved the mess of his suitcase, dragging it up the staircase and slowly starting to unpack. The coffee makes it easier to think, clearing some of the overemotional shit from his head, and Brendon hooks his iPod up to Pete's stereo and sets it on shuffle.

Hemingway watches him from his spot on the bed, up near the pillows, and Brendon rubs down between his ears every second or third pass. It takes over an hour to get to the bottoms of his suitcase and his carry-on. His coffee is gone, all of it, and Brendon sinks down onto the bed beside Hemingway, one hand pressed flat against his fur. Brendon looks around the room, Pete's room, with his stuff taking up the empty space, squatting in it. He thinks about putting it all back in his suitcase, how long it would take and how wrong it looks now.

Not for the first time Brendon thinks he should maybe just go home.

Brendon tries to think positively, tries to remember why trading houses with a stranger who lived on the other side of the world seemed like a good idea, but nothing much is coming to mind. The only good thing is there's no chance that Shane will drop by to pick up some of his shit, and that's something, at least.

*

Brendon's halfway through repacking and almost all the way through a bottle of Pete's wine when he hears banging at the door. He can't remember seeing any houses close enough for it to be a neighbor and it's way too late for deliveries or anything normal.

He tries not to freak out and sneaks down the stairs with a giant hammer thingy he found in the corner, Hemmy close on his heels.

Brendon keeps repeating to himself that, _burglars don't knock, burglars don't knock, burglars totally don't knock,_ until it sticks and he stops freaking out quite so much. There's nothing worse than being alone in a strange house, in a strange town, in a strange country with nothing but a mallet and a dog to protect you against whatever is out there waiting to rip off your arms and spit in your neck.

He's only a few feet from the door when whoever it is knocks again and Hemmy barks and Brendon startles so bad his heart is pounding in time with the pounding on the door.

"What the fuck, Pete?" Brendon hears but he knows it doesn't mean anything, not really, that whoever is out there knows it. Pete's name is on the mailbox. It doesn't mean anything, not really, that whoever it is out there knows it. It doesn't mean anything, Brendon can't help thinking, but he's a little less freaked out, not quite so poised for attack.

He opens the door and Brendon's first thought is that he's hot, this guy standing on Pete's doorstep. He's hot and by this point Brendon's impromptu weapon is almost completely forgotten.

"Oh," the guy says, hand still hanging in the air. He says, "You're not Pete," and his forehead crinkles slightly, pretty fucking adorably. Brendon's hand flexes around the handle of the mallet and he takes in the height difference, the stretch of shoulders in front of him. This guy could take him, easily, and Brendon isn't thinking about Shane for the first time since he got to England.

"Brendon," Brendon says a little dumbly, not sure if introducing himself is really a good idea. "Pete's uh. Well, he's," Brendon waves his hand and finishes, "In L.A."

The dude doesn't introduce himself, just squints his eyes into little slits and cocks his head at Brendon. He makes this little sound and then starts to list off to the side.

"Whoa," he says, putting a hand up against the door frame. "Hey," he says, "Hey, do you mind if I come in? Not like, just for a minute."

He sways again and Brendon automatically reaches out to him, fingers closing around soft fabric.

"Hey," the guys says again, and smiles.

Brendon doesn't even think about it, just smiles back. He says, "You're totally drunk, aren't you?" and still without thinking tugs the guy into the house.

"I'm not," he says, but then he stumbles over his own feet and nearly drags both of them to the ground. By some miracle Brendon manages to keep them upright, even when this strange, drunk dude's hip bumps sharply against his.

"Ow," Brendon mutters, fingers curling around the guy's other hip, the one not pressed flush with his own. Brendon feels himself going red and he's so glad his hair is long enough to hang in his face a little.

The guy makes a muffled sound against Brendon's head and it sounds suspiciously like a giggle. His arm tightens around Brendon's waist and Brendon is really damn close to clinging back. Instead he forces himself to step away, one hand at the guy's shoulder to keep him standing.

Brendon takes a deep breath and tries to will away the stupid flush on his cheeks. He says, "You. I just groped you and I don't even know your name."

There's another suspicious sound - a fucking giggle, seriously, and this dude really doesn't look like the type to giggle - and then the drunk guy levers himself away from Brendon just enough to offer his hand. He's smiling, easy and open, when he says, "Spencer. Spencer Smith."

Brendon, still smiling, says, "You weren't actually planning on robbing Pete, were you? I mean, not such a good idea telling me your name if you were. In fact, your whole technique could use some work."

"You mean the knocking?" Spencer laughs, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck. He's fucking gorgeous and Brendon doesn't care who he is, just wants to keep making him smile, laugh.

"The knocking and dude, letting me see your face? Now I can identify you." Brendon leaves the if I were still alive part unsaid. Spencer doesn't look like a killer and he's bigger, but he's also pretty drunk, one hand on his neck and the other braced against the low wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. Brendon thinks he could run even though he can't actually take Spencer.

Spencer's still smiling and Brendon really, really hopes he's not a burglar-slash-murderer. That would seriously suck.

"So," Spencer says after a moment, "Where's Pete?"

It sounds kind of creepy in his head, but Brendon says, "We switched houses," anyway. Spencer's forehead crinkles up again, the smile sliding away in his apparent confusion. He turns, slumps back against the wall, and says, "Right, okay, but. Switched? Just whoop, he takes over your life and you take his?"

"Sort of, yeah," Brendon says, his eyes veering away from Spencer's face. "I mean. Just houses, not like, jobs and shit. Not everything."

He still feels weird saying it. He hears _running away running away running away_ repeating in his head every time he has to explain it to someone else, every time he repeats it to himself.

"Huh," Spencer says, glancing around the small cottage that doesn't look any different from when Brendon arrived, barely at all, even. Brendon's jacket is hanging on the back of one chair and his backpack is slumped against the couch, but there's still the overwhelming feel of Pete.

"Do you want," Brendon starts, thinking maybe he should find out why exactly Spencer is here, why he hadn't known that Pete was gone. It seems kind of likely that they're not great friends, not good enough for Pete to tell him about a month away. "Do you want something to drink, or- I haven't really checked out the kitchen, but I could probably find something to eat." He raises an eyebrow and Spencer raises one right back.

"Water, water would be _great._ " Spencer takes another look around and then, apparently satisfied, says, "I'm totally going to kill that douchebag."

The laugh startles right out of Brendon, and he probably shouldn't turn his back on Spencer; he's still a stranger, right. But he does anyway, heading for the kitchen and blaming the slight shaking of his hands on the chill, the lack of sleep.

"So," Spencer says, voice cheery. "What brings you to England?"

Brendon blames the fact that he tells Spencer on the alcohol and the long-as-fuck flight.

*

Pete heads downstairs, face creased from the pillows, to make sure this Patrick guy is who he says he is.

By the time Pete hits the first floor landing - he still can't believe the house is so big - someone, he assumes it's the Patrick guy, is opening the front door because Pete forgot to lock it when he got in.

The guy who comes in is wearing a baseball hat, a sweater vest and jeans with neon purple sneakers and Pete can't help blurting out, "What the fuck are you wearing?" and, "Your shoes are cool though, where'd you get them?" before he's even fully in the door. There's a tall dark haired girl - she's wearing something Pete isn't sure can be called a dress since it's about the length of a long shirt - right behind him.

It's not like Pete is trying to go out of his way to be an asshole but he's run down and cranky and these people are invading his heavenly paradise of a vacation.

The guy, Patrick, stares at Pete for a second says, "Seriously? Are you always this much of a dick?" and before Pete has a chance to answer - clearly the guy meant it as a rhetorical question which is just way too fucking presumptuous of him, Pete's default is lovable asshole - Patrick keeps going, adding, "Where is Brendon and what kind of trip takes a month?"

Patrick looks like he could probably keep going for a while - he's already pacing just a little bit. And it's not like Pete would mind watching that, Patrick has the kind of mouth that Pete would love to watch do all sorts of things, but he figures it's probably better to explain sooner than later.

"England. We swapped houses for a month," Pete explains sitting down on the stairs, "Brendon said he told people," he says, waving a hand at Patrick while the girl - Patrick called her Victoria - heads up to Brendon's office to grab whatever it is they're there to pick up.

"You," Patrick stops pacing, "You're not British."

Pete smiles and says, "No," drawing out the 'O,' and "good ear," rolling his eyes a little. It's kind of bad how much he enjoys knocking this guy off balance a little. "I'm from Chicago, I live in the UK."

Patrick crosses his arms. "Where in Chicago?" glaring at Pete like he's got to be lying or something.

"Wilmette," Pete says leaning back on the stairs, "not exactly in the city." It's not at all comfortable but if he's going to get interrogated he might as well relax a little.

"Really? I grew up in Glenview." Patrick sits down on the stairs, one leg folded up under him across from Pete.

"See, we're practically neighbors, old friends," Pete says, shifting to face Patrick. Pete's pretty sure his parents' house doesn't even have a staircase big enough for two people to sit like this.

"Yeah, sure. So why England? You live in London or something, right? Why swap houses with a stranger? No offense or anything, but that seems like a pretty fucking stupid idea." Patrick looks down a lot when he talks, playing with his hat, his hair before gesturing at Pete making a face that says 'I think you might be crazy' without actually saying it out loud.

Pete sighs, leans back against the base of the banister, and says, "The England thing is complicated. Family stuff. But, uh, yeah I live just outside of London, been working at NME for a couple of years." Pete smiles remembering when he started, how he talked his way into a job with nothing but a BA in Political Science and a puberty spent in the Chicago local hardcore scene.

The smile slides off Pete's face as he thinks about the last couple of years, about all the shitty things that have happened to him and all the people he loves. "I told my boyfriend - my ex now - something pretty private about me and things fell apart. Now he's engaged to my ex-girlfriend,", Pete smiles to himself, quick. "So you know, Brendon wanting to switch houses kind of saved me. I couldn't really stay there and keep working with both of them pretending, to be happy for them."

"Well. Shit," Patrick says. He looks kind of uncomfortable and starts adjusting his hat again -Pete can tell it's a habit, the way most people compulsively push their hair behind their ears or bite their nails. It's stupidly adorable.

Patrick looks like he's about to say something more, brow furrowed just the tiniest little bit - Pete kind of wants to run his thumb along that crease and smooth out the line and just the thought wanting to do that to this guy who is still a stranger throws him off-balance - when Victoria yells down the stairs, "Greta wants to know why you're bothering Brendon's house guest!"

Patrick flushes, mumbles, "I gotta..." like his boss or his wife is calling to yell, jerking a hand up towards the office before heading up the stairs past Pete.

Pete can just barely hear him saying, "She could have told me about this, I see her every freaking day," and then Patrick's voice fades a little more as he heads into the office and they close the door.

*

Pete wanders around the first floor, it feels too weird to head back upstairs and try to go back to sleep with people in the house, with people he doesn't know who seem to know the lay of the house better than he could ever hope to in a month.

He's just grabbed a Capri Sun out of the refrigerator - Pete is considering emailing Brendon to mock him for his choice of beverage - and pulled himself up on the counter when they come downstairs.

Pete hears the front door open and close and figures that they must have left without saying bye. He's surprised how lonely that makes him feel, the first two people he's met leaving without a word. It's weird because it's not like they were there to see him but still it's suddenly too quiet, the house too big.

Pete's morosely sipping at his Capri Sun, ready to wallow in misery when Patrick walks into the kitchen.

It's kind of sad how much that cheers Pete up but he's never had any shame before and he's not about to spontaneously develop some now.

Patrick says, "Hey, so we're heading out," pulling on the brim of his hat again before sliding his hands in his pockets.

Pete nods, mumbles, "Yeah no. That's cool," and hops down off the counter. Pete sticks out his hand, says, "It was nice to meet you."

They shake hands and Patrick smiles says, "Yeah, you too. When you're not being a massive asshole you're pretty okay."

Pete laughs because he's pretty _awesome_ even when he's being a massive asshole, says, "You woke me up with buzzing and sunshine. It's totally your fault."

Patrick laughs too, says, "Whatever you have to tell yourself, buddy," and it's a sound Pete wants to hear all the time but he doesn't even want to think about what that might mean. "Do you have. Do have like a plan for while you're here? Or people- friends you want to see or something?"

Pete coughs a little, palms the back of his neck says, "Ahhh, no," running his fingers through his hair. "This wasn't so much planned out. I kind of said let's do this and booked a flight and here I am." Pete spreads his arms out wide trying to encompass this house, this city, the country.

"I could. I mean if you want. I could show you around a little," Patrick says, adjusting the brim of his hat again. "It's not like I'm the end all be all of LA or anything but uh just so you have one pseudo-friendly face," Patrick pauses. "Unless you're gonna be a dick and then I'll be one more angry face."

Pete smiles, rocks back on his heels a little says, "That would be fucking awesome! You're like my first LA friend."

Patrick laughs again, says, "Cool," and "I'll try my best not to disappoint you."

They exchange numbers and make plans for Patrick to show Pete around in the next few days after he's settled in a little.

Pete walks Patrick out to his car, a little blue Honda Civic that just doesn't fit at all with the whole Hollywood mansion lifestyle he was giving Patrick in his mind. Pete waves them off, makes sure that the gate actually closes behind them and heads back inside.

This whole trip thing seems more and more like his greatest snap decision ever.

*

Brendon is partway through explaining Shane, the way he smiled, crooked and amused, and the way he rolled his eyes, exasperation bleeding into every expression. Brendon's partway through explaining the way they just stopped. Stopped fighting, stopped wanting to fuck. The way Shane stopped kissing him whenever he felt like it, though Brendon's not sure, maybe he just stopped feeling like it.

He's rambling, nowhere near all the way through six fucking years of Brendon and Shane, Shane and Brendon, when Spencer leans forward and kisses him.

"Whoa," Brendon says, touching his mouth lightly, when Spencer pulls away.

They've finished the first bottle of wine and started a second, Spencer's glass left forgotten on the coffee table when he leaned in and now Brendon ignores his own in favor of staring at Spencer's mouth, the shine of spit on his lower lip. He's watching Spencer's mouth when it slips down into a frown, when Spencer says, "Fuck, I'm sorry. I mean- fuck, I shouldn't have done that, what the fuck."

"No," Brendon says, and he's not even sure what he's protesting: Spencer's mouth on his or the way it isn't anymore. He fumbles his glass for a second, trying not to spill it in his haste to put it down, to get his hands on Spencer. "No, hey," Brendon says, and Spencer's still frowning, looking worried.

Spencer opens his mouth to say something and Brendon, he can't even deny it, thinks about Shane just before he closes the distance between them and kisses Spencer again. It's longer this time, a real kiss with a swipe of tongue and Spencer opening his mouth when Brendon does it again, presses his tongue to the corner of Spencer's mouth and licks at his bottom lip. Spencer's a good kisser, lips dragging over Brendon's like he's got all the time in the world, but it's not quite enough.

Brendon curls his hands into fists, pressing them into the couch and his thigh, and he wants to touch, needs more than just the tiny spot of contact at their knees, their mouths. He wants to touch so bad and he's not sure if he can, if it's allowed. He's not sure what the fuck this is, if Spencer's just drunk, if _he's_ just drunk, and he hasn't kissed anyone but Shane in over five years.

He's missed that thrill of kissing someone new, of not knowing what to expect or what's coming next even if he still knows next to nothing about Spencer.

Spencer pulls away with a soft press of teeth and a low sound, his eyes opening slowly. He sort of half-smiles, and Brendon wants to kiss him again. His mouth is red, dark, and his cheeks are just barely flushed, the color stretching all the way down into the curve of his sweater. Brendon thinks _gorgeous_ and then _I did that_ before tilting his head, his chin back just a little so that Spencer gets the hint. He can tell Spencer does because his half-smile turns into a real one and he says, "What? Is there something you wanted?" with nowhere near the amount of edge he was probably going for.

Brendon finally hums a little after it becomes painfully apparent that Spencer isn't going to just kiss him already. He says, "Spencer. Come on, hey," and the want is bleeding into his words without Brendon ever having to say please.

"Brendon," Spencer says. He cups his hands around Brendon's neck, thumbs brushing along the line of his jaw, and Brendon relaxes, the tension in his spine going soft. He says it again, says Brendon's name once and then twice, and smiles, easy and sweet.

Spencer slowly circles his thumbs up over Brendon's cheeks: up over the curve, under his eyes, and then finally ending up back at his mouth, one finger pressed to the center of Brendon's lower lip. Brendon feels the press of his thumb, the faint sting when Spencer presses his nail lightly into the skin. He slides his tongue out to meet Spencer's finger, smiling when Spencer's eyes drop straight down to his mouth.

Spencer's still looking at his mouth when Brendon curls a hand around his neck and surges closer. He wants to get back to the kissing, wants Spencer's mouth and Spencer's tongue and he's halfway there, inches away, when one of Spencer's hands drops to his thigh.

"Oh," Brendon says, voice hushed, just before Spencer closes the last few inches with a hard kiss, all teeth and bruising lips.

The kisses are harder than they were and Brendon doesn't even get the chance to revel in the feel of Spencer, his skin and his lips, before Spencer's pulling away again.

"You," Spencer says, then, "Fuck, can I-" and stopping short just tugs Brendon into his lap, Brendon sprawling forward into him.

"Oomph," Brendon says and leans up to kiss Spencer. The angle is awkward at first, and Brendon can't get comfortable, one of his shins pressing too hard against Spencer's thigh. He squirms through the kiss, struggling to find something that works. Spencer's grip tightens around Brendon's hip, his neck, and he mumbles something that sounds like it could be "what the fuck are you doing? Stay still," though Brendon can't tell because Spencer's still kissing him.

Brendon somehow manages to squirm higher, into something approaching comfortable. His knees are on either side of Spencer's hips, and every time Brendon moves his hips he can feel the brush of Spencer's dick, hard against his own.

Brendon starts to move a little more deliberately, one hand curled into Spencer's hair and the other on his chest, spread just under Spencer's heart. He rolls his hips forward, listening for the tiny gasps Spencer makes every time they touch. They're faint and barely there, pressed up against Brendon's mouth, but they're there and Brendon's pretty sure that's all that matters.

It's a few minutes before Brendon can pull himself away, too caught up in Spencer's mouth to think of much beyond, but then Spencer tilts his hips up and the friction is enough to make Brendon gasp, make him pull away long enough to grab at Spencer's sweater and tug it up over his head, a little desperate for skin. There's a button down underneath, though, and Brendon doesn't have the time, the patience, to stop and say something, but he does take a vague note of the floral print, a pretty pale blue. A minute later and the shirt is nearly gone, unbuttoned and pushed away, left tangled at Spencer's wrists, but there's another one under it, an undershirt that makes Brendon growl with frustration. Spencer jerks under him at the sound and Brendon looks up, up through his lashes, to find Spencer biting down on his lower lip, eyes dark and cheeks flushed bright. He's fucking gorgeous.

"Fuck," Brendon says, voice rusty, looking at Spencer until Spencer starts to squirm, mouth dropping open on a quiet moan when Brendon squirms back. They settle into a stilted sort of rhythm and not before long Spencer is pulling at Brendon's sweater, echoing Brendon's fuck and adding his own, adding an impatient "c'mon, off, off."

Brendon pulls away long enough to tug both his sweater and the shirt underneath it off, over his head, and then he's pulling away altogether, thinking _bed bed bed,_ and saying, "Upstairs, c'mon. There's a fucking _bed_ upstairs," and tugging on Spencer's wrist. He can see the second of hesitation in Spencer's face before he gives in, letting Brendon pull him off the couch and send them trip-tumbling up the stairs.

Brendon hears the slow creak of the door in their wake, the dull clank of Spencer's belt, and he tugs at his own jeans with one hand. He gets the button open and then he's got to stop, a little too drunk to split his attention between hanging onto Spencer, Spencer's imminent lack of clothing, and then his own. He doesn't want to let go, Spencer's skin warm underneath his fingers, and Brendon's missed the feel of someone else, missed waking up with Shane right there, hair a mess and eyes sleepy.

"Hey," Spencer says, interrupting Brendon's memories, thoughts of Shane's easy, teasing smile pressed against his own. Spencer twists his wrist from Brendon's grasp, threading their fingers together instead. He squeezes lightly, pulling Brendon closer at the same time. "Hey," he says again, quietly, and then they're kissing again, easy like it wasn't before. Brendon relaxes at the soft tug of Spencer's hand at his hair, lets out the tiniest gasp and feels Spencer's mouth turn up into a smile.

"You should take these off," Spencer mumbles, mouth still pressed against Brendon's and one hand suddenly tugging at Brendon's pants, the hem of his shirt. Brendon tilts his head back, almost the start of a nod, except he's really only baring his throat for Spencer's mouth, his teeth, and Spencer's fingers tighten in Brendon's hair, his mouth opening over skin.

It's probably only a few seconds, not nearly long enough, before Spencer's saying it again, saying "off, off," and this time the hand in Brendon's hair disappears and he's pushing Brendon's pants down and off.

His mouth is gone then too, hands setting Brendon inches -- too far, too far -- away. Spencer circles his fingers over Brendon's hips, just over the waistband to his underwear, and a shiver goes through Brendon as he moves them higher up. Slowly, slowly, Spencer pushes Brendon's shirt off, his fingers spanning the width of Brendon's side and up, up over his nipples. His mouth grazes Brendon's neck for a brief second before he's finally pulling the shirt all the way off.

Spencer ducks in to kiss him again and Brendon curls his fingers into bare skin, and hangs on. He doesn't care that they're not completely naked, thinks maybe they could just do it like this, rub off on each other and it's not that bad an idea, the friction is going to his head already. "Spencer, fuck," he mumbles and Spencer must take that to mean something because he steps closer, closer, closer, crowding Brendon back toward the bed.

After a moment, with the bed at Brendon's legs, Spencer says, "That's the general idea, yeah," and he's too breathless to really pull it off, but Brendon's hard and ready, so fucking ready, that it doesn't matter. He just wants.

Brendon drops down on the bed, hands going up to Spencer's waist. He slips his fingers under the waistband, tries once, twice to thumb open the button fly before giving up and leaning forward to press soft kisses to Spencer's belly. Spencer slides his hands down Brendon's shoulders, one hand slipping into Brendon's hair and tugging lightly until Brendon tips his head back to look up at him.

"Hey," Brendon whispers, smiling when Spencer leans forward, mumbles, "Hi," against Brendon's lips before kissing him softly at first, then harder, tongue sliding into Brendon's mouth quick and easy. Brendon lets Spencer push him farther up the bed, smiles when Spencer's hands tugs on his boxers pulling them down and off, scooting back until his head hits the pillows. Spencer leans over Brendon, hands braced on the bed as Brendon fumbles at his pants again, pulling away for a second to mumble, "gotcha," when he finally gets the first button undone and then it's not long before he's tugging both Spencer's jeans and boxers down over those awesome hips - Brendon wants to spent awhile sucking marks into the pale, pale skin there.

It takes a little work to get Spencer's pants all the way off - his jeans are almost as tight as Brendon's - but then they're off and it's nothing but _skinskinskin,_ Spencer's dick hot and hard against Brendon's leg. Spencer shifts, sliding up Brendon's body, leaving a wet trail of pre-come on Brendon's thigh, settling when their dicks are almost lined up. Brendon thrusts up, groans at the feel of his dick brushing rough against Spencer's skin, at the way Spencer thrusts down, hands braced on the bed bracketing Brendon's head. Spencer licks along Brendon's collarbone, leaves a trail of wet kisses up Brendon's neck, finding a spot just under Brendon's neck and sucking hard enough that some distance part of Brendon's mind knows there will be a mark.

Brendon gasps, arches into Spencer's mouth and whispers, "Lube. We should. Fuck. Lube now."

Spencer mumbles, "mmmm," but doesn't move, keeps thrusting down, teeth grazing Brendon's ear. Brendon groans, he doesn't want Spencer to stop but he still wants, needs more. He pushes at Spencer's shoulders says, "Up, up," until Spencer lifts up enough to let him roll over unto his stomach. Brendon reaches for the drawer, huffs out a breathe when Spencer's weight drops down on top of him again. Spencer's dick slips along the line of Brendon's ass and Brendon pushes back into him for a second, lube forgotten, moaning when Spencer thrusts forward. Spencer's teeth graze Brendon's ear again and he whispers, "Wanna fuck you," making Brendon groan, hand feeling around for lube and condoms, hoping he didn't imagine seeing both in Pete's drawer.

Brendon's fingers catch on something square, something that feels like a box of condoms. He opens his mouth to tell Spencer and he can't breathe. Spencer pushes two slick fingers into Brendon's ass. Breath hot in his ear, Spencer says, "Found some lube under the pillow," voice low and rough. Brendon rocks back into it - he can't remember the last time he had sex, the last time he was in a bed with Shane and did anything more than sleep - condoms forgotten for the moment, moaning out a quick, "more" and "fuck" when Spencer complies sliding in a third slick finger. Brendon's pretty sure he could come just from Spencer's fingers, from the friction of the sheets against his dick, from Spencer's hot breath on his neck but he wants more.

He doesn't stop pushing back on Spencer's fingers, keeps meeting every thrust, as he tries to find the condoms again, fumbling one out of the box one handed when he does, then tearing it open with his teeth. He says, "Spencer. Spence please," waving the condom over his shoulder. It takes Spencer a minute to notice, but then he stops, pulls his fingers out and whispers, "You sure?" pressing his forehead to the back of Brendon's neck when Brendon nods, says, "Yes, _fuck yes_."

Brendon lets Spencer manhandle him closer to the middle of the bed, snaps, "Get the fuck on with it," and then, "I can do that quicker," when it seems like Spencer is taking too long to get the condom out of the already open wrapper. Spencer shushes him, hands gripping Brendon's hips, pulling him up onto his knees. Spencer uses his knees to spread Brendon's legs wider and then he pushes in all at once, hard and hot, not giving Brendon any time to ease into it. Brendon rocks his hips back when Spencer doesn't start fucking him right away, groans when Spencer shifts just the tiniest bit, and mumbles, "I'm ready. Come _on,_ " his words turning into a moan when Spencer thrusts in hard and his fingers tighten enough that Brendon knows he'll have finger-shaped bruises in the morning.

Brendon keeps rocking his hips back, meeting Spencer thrust for thrust, head dropped down on his forearms to try to stop from moaning too loud, from saying anything too stupid just because it's been so long - almost three, maybe four months - since he's been fucked. Spencer slows down a little, thrusts longer, slower, deeper and shifts, hands slipping off Brendon's hips. Spencer runs his hands up Brendon's sides, up, up, up - almost too gentle so that it's a little bit ticklish, making Brendon laugh and then gasp at the way that forces him back on Spencer's dick even deeper - until his hands reach Brendon's hands and he links their fingers together and shifts until Brendon has to spread his legs a little bit wider. Spencer drops wet kisses along Brendon's neck, tightens his grip on Brendon's hands and starts fucking him harder, hard enough to move the bed, hard enough that Brendon can't do much more than moan and push his hips back into it, dick rubbing against the sheets each time Spencer thrusts back in.

He can't last long like that, between Spencer's mouth, his dick, and the weight of him across Brendon's back he's so so close. Brendon can feel his orgasm dancing along the edge of his consciousness so he tries and fails to get a little more friction from the sheets on his dick but Spencer's not really helping, fucking him almost too hard to get any good friction. So Brendon just rolls with it, lets it creep up a little slower until he's arching his back into Spencer's chest and coming all over the sheets. Spencer's not far behind, fucking Brendon steady and hard through his own orgasm, saying, "Fuck," and, "Brendon," voice mostly shredded, forehead pressed into the nape of Brendon's neck.

Neither of them move right away after; Spencer doesn't pull out or try to roll away, just stays breathing hard onto Brendon's skin. Eventually Spencer pulls out, both of them groaning at the loss of contact. He throws the condom in the general vicinity of the bathroom, rolls over toward Brendon, one arm thrown across his waist and waits for Brendon to move closer, eyes already slipping closed. Brendon moves over out of the wet spot, turns so his back is to Spencer's front, until they're pressed flush together and falls asleep.

*

Brendon wakes up with a stiff neck and what feels like a ton of seriously thick blankets spread over him. He's hot as fuck, even though he's naked, and it takes him more than a second to remember where he is, though he's still too jet lagged to get seriously worried. There are a couple of faint thumps from downstairs and it takes another few seconds for the night before to come back to him. He remembers Spencer's skin, his smile, and the way his eyes lit up whenever he laughed.

There's a minute or two where, despite the heat, Brendon doesn't really feel like moving, much less struggling out from underneath all the blankets and finding some clothes. He's still a little fuzzy from the trip, or the sleep, or the wine, and the only thing that finally convinces him to get out of bed is the way he's really got to piss.

Five minutes later Brendon stumbles down the stairs to find a sliver of Spencer's bare hip and nearly-ready coffee. It's sort of sad, but he's more tempted by the coffee. There at least he's not on totally unsteady ground, unlike with Spencer where he's unsure of whether he's got the right to slide an arm around Spencer's waist and aim a kiss, sloppy and wet, at his cheek. Brendon might not be sure of that but he is absolutely sure, though, that he's going to drink the shit out of a cup of coffee right now.

Brendon stares at the cabinets for a minute, trying to remember where he saw the mugs when Spencer hands him one and slides out of the path to the delicious life giving coffee. He grunts his thanks, doesn't want to risk words before he's had coffee, when he's standing in Pete's tiny kitchen in nothing but boxers and a sweater that he's pretty sure isn't his.

Brendon hasn't been the kind of person who falls into bed with strangers when he's drunk in a long, long time. He's not sure how it works, if he's supposed to say something, do something, if it's bad etiquette to ask Spencer to dinner or to just stay.

Brendon dumps in spoon after spoon of sugar, ignoring the way Spencer's eyebrows keep going higher and higher.

"That much sugar will rot your teeth. you know," Spencer says. They're the first words either of them have spoken since the night before, the first words that aren't 'more' and 'fuck' and 'harder'.

Brendon smiles a little, but doesn't stop adding what is probably his sixth spoonful of sugar - he doesn't really pay attention to how much - and says, "It's better when it's extra sweet. Even more when there's chocolate."

Spencer laughs and walks over to the refrigerator, pulls out a bottle of chocolate sauce and hands it to Brendon. The kitchen is so small, so cramped that even though they're not touching Brendon can feel the heat coming off of Spencer's skin.

Even with the lingering effects of the jet lag, with the headache that's trying to plant itself in his head before the wonderful coffee does its job, Brendon thinks it doesn't feel as awkward as it should. He still doesn't know how Spencer knows Pete, doesn't know why Spencer showed up at ass o'clock in the morning drunk.

"Our family is pretty fond of chocolate too," Spencer says.

Brendon perks up at that word, at _family,_ and asks, "So you and Pete are related? Like brothers or cousins or something?"

"Pete's my brother," Spencer says, and there's a second where it looks like he's going to say more, but in the end he doesn't, glancing away instead.

Brendon starts to say, "Do you-" but Spencer talks at the same time, and says, "I should-" and they both stop, both laughing a little - embarrassed - before Brendon is waving a hand at Spencer saying, "You first."

Spencer palms the back of his neck, hair falling down across his eyes, says, "I should probably head out," and Brendon hopes - not for the first time - that his face doesn't give him away, that Spencer can't see disappointment written large across his smile that's just a little bit dimmer, his eyes a little less bright. Brendon can always blame it on a combo of wine and jet lag.

"No, yeah that's cool," Brendon says, words running a little together. "I'm sure you have things you need to do today."

It's silly to get upset about someone he's known for less than twenty four hours, to think that having some _awesome_ drunk sex means that Spencer actually wants to spend any more time around him.

Still. Brendon feels like he's been kicked in the stomach and he's not sure what to think about that yet, thinks maybe he's latching onto the first person to pay attention to him since Shane. Shane who stopped really looking at him, listening to him, months before he made it official and moved out.

Spencer frowns, crosses his arms, says, "Listen, do you want to maybe. Not that you don't have," he blows out a breath and Brendon just stands there confused. "I'm really bad at this. Have dinner with me? I mean. Not that you have to, just if you don't have plans or anything."

Brendon smiles so wide he's afraid his face might crack, that the headache that's been hanging around on the outer edges of his awareness might sneak through. He bounces a little and says, "No, yes, absolutely," and when he realizes how desperate that sounds, tries again with, "I mean it's cool, I haven't decided what I'm gonna do first yet. So yeah. Yeah dinner would be good," and then Brendon shuts up because he's doing that nervous babbling thing that people tend to find charming only in teeny, tiny doses.

Spencer relaxes just the littlest bit, shoulders dropping down a little. Brendon wouldn't even have noticed he was tense if his whole stance hadn't changed just slightly, almost too small of a difference to really tell.

Brendon's always been good at noticing the little things like, the things people try to hide, the things they assume he won't notice because he's too happy or hyper or spazzy. It's what makes him good at his job, makes it easy for him to score scenes that have just the subtlest shift in emotion or to pull something out of a scene that can't be done by an actor's performance alone.

"Okay, good. That's good. I can pick you up around seven or so?" Spencer asks, glancing quickly into the living room. He's got his floral shirt on but he's missing the sweater he was wearing, the sweater Brendon threw somewhere on the living room floor.

Brendon's ears get hot, just a little bit; he tries to mentally tamp it down even though he knows that won't work. No one has made him blush in years, not since high school and braces and girls who thought he was adorable but still said no. "Seven is fine, um." Brendon eases past Spencer into the living room, and doesn't wait for him to follow.

Brendon stands for a second, hands on his hips before spotting something peeking out from under the sofa and dropping onto his knees to get it. "Your sweater is in here. I think I might've, uh. You know, last night." Brendon looks at Spencer for a second, watching the flush creep across his skin and taking a moment to be happy that he's not alone in this.

Brendon had forgotten how awkward these things are, how even when you plan on seeing each other again it's still hard to know what to do, how to act. Anything and everything becomes stilted, weird and he never knows what's expected, how things should go just because they had sex.

Spencer lingers in the doorway for a second before following Brendon into the living room and reaching out for the sweater, saying, "Thanks. I lost track of it. When we were, um," and Brendon watches as he stops pulling the sweater on over his head, color spreading slowly across his cheeks. "I should, um. I should go," Spencer says, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder and walking toward the door, "but I'll be back at 7, okay?" and walks toward the door.

"Yeah, sure. That's fine. Good," Brendon says running a hand through his hair and following Spencer to the door.

They stand there facing each other, Brendon fidgeting a little, not sure what to say or do. Brendon bounces on his toes a little and finally thinks, 'Fuck it,' tilting forward to hug Spencer goodbye just as Spencer puts out his hand to shake.

Brendon wants to curl up and die, he rocks back on his heels, shakes Spencer's hand and only squeaks a little bit when Spencer pulls him into a quick hug and whispers, "See you later," into his ear. And then Spencer pulls away and is out the door before Brendon can say anything more than, "uh."

He rests his head against the door, takes a few deep breaths and says, "I am so, so fucked." Brendon pushing away from the door to unpack - _again_ \- and try to figure out what to wear.

*

Pete is too hyper to even think about going back to sleep and he's pretty used to functioning on way less than two or three hours, so he goes in search of Brendon's car keys.

It's maybe not the best plan but the car has GPS and driving around the neighborhood, getting a little lost, is one of Pete's favorite ways to clear his head.

He finds the keys hung up on a little hook, labeled 'Car Keys!' right under another hook that says 'House keys!' Pete stops for a second, smiling at the labels that scream 'a mom was here', grabs both sets of keys and heads out.

Pete drives around for a while, lets the GPS guide him to the nearest highway and then just zones out, cruising along. It's relaxing, quiet and he's got words rushing through his head, thinks about maybe picking up a new notebook while he's in town, something that can be just for here, for this month, this trip, this experience.

Pete pulls into the first strip mall that looks like it might have a Wal-Mart. He doesn't need anything fancy, just a lined notebook to collect his thoughts, however scattered they might be. He still doesn't really know where he is, hasn't picked up anything about the geography of downtown Los Angeles, about the different parts of the city just yet. But Pete figures Patrick can explain that, can help him pull it all together when he takes Pete on the tour.

It's not until he's in line, two notebooks, some pens, Hot Pockets and a bunch of other random shit in the his basket that Pete remembers he hasn't changed his money over, that he doesn't have any cash that's not the wrong color with the wrong people on it. Pete seriously doubts some random Wal-Mart in wherever-the-fuck-he-is is going to take international currency and starts going through his pockets, hoping like hell he's got a credit card on him, that he didn't leave everything back at the house.

When Pete gets up to the conveyor he stops looking for his credit card long enough to dump his stuff out without any sort of order and then goes back to searching while the cashier scans his stuff. His fingers finally snag on his credit card and he does a fist pump, a "fuck yeah" that's too loud from the way the cashier looks at him, but fuck that. He's got money, he's got Hot Pockets and notebooks and this pimply-faced kid can just go the hell ahead and judge him for being happy for five seconds.

He checks out, heads back out to the car and tries to get back to Brendon's house by memory, giving the GPS a break but it's a disaster. Pete makes it to the highway okay, makes it to an exit that looks like the one at which he got on, but beyond that it's all the same big gated house over and over again.

Pete's thinking about maybe using the GPS again, giving in to the lure of technology that probably knows better about how to navigate strange cities than his shitty sense of direction when he spots a really tall guy standing on the sidewalk in Zebra print pants. The guy is staring at him like he can see inside of Pete's mind. Normally that would be kind of disturbing, but Pete is pretty sure this is maybe the third or fourth time he's passed the same guy, so he pulls over.

*

It's way worse than wandering around lost. The dude with the pants - Gabe - is possibly the most ridiculous person Pete has ever met but he swears he knows where Brendon lives so Pete's willing to take a chance on letting him get into the car.

Just because his eyes give him this weird rape-y vibe doesn't mean he's actually dangerous. Plus Pete highly doubts any serial killer would be lame enough to wear pants that ugly.

It's not like the ridiculousness is a bad thing exactly but Gabe - "it's G.A.B.E. man, get it right" - keeps talking about playing shuffle board and getting the early bird special and all sorts of other shit that doesn't make sense because he doesn't look a day over _maybe_ 35\. It's weird.

Gabe says, "That Urie boy lives down the road from me. He's a good kid, no wild parties but he shares his weed. Good values."

Pete keeps staring at him, keeps thinking that he knows him from somewhere, until it finally clicks and Pete blurts, "Gabe. Gabe Saporta?" and Gabe looks over at Pete says, "That is indeed my name, young friend. It's nice you kids these days are learning about their elders. Back in my day kids weren't always so respectful of us old fogies."

Pete's face does this thing where he tries to make seven different faces at once but he only ends up looking constipated because seriously, kids these days his _ass_. "Gabe Saporta of _Midtown_? Gabe Saporta of Midtown who is barely older than me. Are you that Gabe Saporta?"

"I've been retired for 3 years, that counts as ten years against my age around you little whippersnappers," Gabe replies, pointing at the corner and telling Pete, "Turn right here. I'm the second house, you're the fourth."

Pete turns and although the block does look more familiar - probably because he's been driving in circles for the last half hour - the whole area is pretty much the same damn houses, with maybe five or six different styles. There is no way in hell he would have been able to find Brendon's house again just on looks alone.

"Bullshit. Being retired before 40 doesn't give you age brownie points. It doesn't work like that," Pete says as they pull in through Gabe's front gate. There's a banner hanging off of the second floor balcony: it's purple, has a cartoon cobra with its mouth open, fangs dripping saliva or venom - Pete doesn't want to know which. It's ready to strike and says 'Fangs Up!' in a white speech bubble. Pete has to take a minute to stare at how dedicated Gabe is to being ridiculous in every way possible.

Gabe rolls his eyes, "Fuck you, I earned my old age with my crazy rock star lifestyle. It's okay kid, you stop by I'll tell you stories from when I was young and sexy. Well, sexier than I am now. I was bendier back then. It'll blow your goddamn mind."

Pete knows it's probably a bad idea but Gabe seems like the perfect sort of person to be around while he's in the States, so he says, "I might do that."

"You better, motherfucker. I know where you live, I'm old and I need you young people to listen to my tales," Gabe says, pausing for a second, car door open with one foot on the ground, "And vodka, you should listen _and_ make me drinks. That's how you show respect to your elders," and then he's out of the car and waving Pete off.

Pete follows Gabe's instructions and pulls up to the gate of the fourth house on the block - he still doesn't know how you even begin to consider this group of mansions a _block_ \- and punches in the code, smiling when the keypad dings and the gates slowly swing open.

*

Brendon doesn't plan on it but he's showered, shaved, dressed and ready to go by five. He's nervous, can't stop fidgeting with his clothes, thinking maybe he's too dressed up or not dressed up enough. He putters around the cottage for a while, ends up cleaning the kitchen and bathroom before the click of Hemmy's claws on the floor makes him think that maybe it's time for a walk.

Brendon puts on as many layers as possible - there's still snow out on the ground and he'll always be a Nevada boy at heart when the weather gets cold - and borrows Pete's puffy coat and boots with the fur. He can't help singing, "She had those apple bottom jeans," under his breath and dancing a little as he searches in the closet and under the couch for Hemmingway's leash.

Finally he just looks down at where Hemmy is sitting waiting at the door, puts his hands on his hips and says, "You wanna show me where you keep your leash so we can get outside buddy?" Brendon doesn't really expect an answer so it's a surprise when Hemmy gets up, runs on his little chubby legs into the kitchen and comes back with a leash in his mouth.

"Well," Brendon mumbles, "Okay then," taking the leash and snapping in onto Hemmy's collar and they're on their way.

They walk down the long, long, never ending road that Brendon took to get to the house when he arrived, walking past where Brendon's evil, unfeeling cab driver abandoned him until they hit the main road for the town.

It's quiet, the few streetlights along the main street just coming on, a few people around going about their business in the shops, each one a little different without a chain in sight. It's nothing at all like the people back in L.A. who go to Whole Foods more because it's trendy than because the food is better, nothing like the strip malls and _peoplepeoplepeople_ that he sees most days in L.A. It's _nice_.

Brendon stops at the small grocery store, crouches down to tell Hemmy to stay, and then ties his leash to a pole outside before running in. He doesn't really know what he needs yet, still not sure if he's going to even make it a few more _days_ let alone the month he originally planned. But he's already finished off a good chunk of Pete's wine and he doesn't want to be the asshole who didn't replace what he drank. Plus, it's only six, so he's got plenty of time.

He picks up a couple bottles of wine, some cheese, crackers, chocolate and a few other things that almost remind him of home.

Brendon finishes up his shopping with just enough time to grab Hemmy and get back up the road and into the house before Spencer shows up.

He doesn't have time to be really nervous anymore, not when he's going up the road that seems much more steep now that he as two grocery bags in addition to a dog that wants to explore everything than it did when he was walking to town.

He makes it to the door mostly intact, with just one near-miss when one of his bags almost burst and Hemmy nearly escaped his leash so Brendon's feeling almost good. Which is usually when things go wrong, and as soon as he gets his fingers on the keys one of the bags slips - the one with the wine, of course - and Hemmy pulls forward on his leash trying to get at the door.

Brendon mutters, "Fuck,", ready to just give up and let everything fall when he hears Spencer say, "Shit, let me help," and then Brendon feels Spencer's hand grabbing Hemmy's leash and one of the bags.

*

The first few minutes of their date is spent feeding the dog and putting away groceries.

It's nowhere near ideal but it's still about a million times less awkward than every other time Brendon has attempted to go out on any sort of first date with someone after they'd already had sex.

It's only really worked out twice, with Shane because they were friends for so long first and with Audrey because they were both too young and too stupid to realize they were the least compatible people ever.

Brendon's not sure what he wants to happen with Spencer but it seems like a bad idea to piss off Pete's brother, the only person he's met in England. He doesn't want to fuck that up. Even if they end up doing that thing where they pretend they didn't have sex about an hour after they met.

Brendon finishes up with the groceries and watches as Spencer plays with Hemmy for a second before saying, "Ready?" He grabs his coat when Spencer nods, stands, and heads for the door.

They don't drive far, maybe a half an hour into the country to a quiet restaurant surrounded by gardens that must be beautiful in the spring. Its covered in snow, doing a much better impression of a winter wonderland than anything Hollywood's ever managed, but there's still the hint of what it could be when it's green and full of life.

By the time they're seated Brendon's anxious, his nerves making him fidget, leg jittering up and bumping into the table. His knee hits the table again and one of the water glasses almost tips over. They both reach for the glass, Spencer reaching out just a little bit faster, stopping it before water spills all over the table.

"Sorry," Brendon says, looking down at the table, "I, uh. Sometimes I, um. I fidget a little. You know when I'm nervous."

Spencer laughs, hair falling in his eyes, says, "It's okay. I, um. I tap when I." Spencer smiles again, "Yeah. I used to play the drums so, you know, it's hard to stop."

And that's all it takes to break the tension, that little mention of playing music and they're talking. About Spencer's first kit, about Brendon's guitars, about the shitty band that Spencer saw the night before - the one his label needed him to check out live before they even thought about signing them.

They talk and talk - pausing for a moment to order - Spencer talking about moving to the UK, about Chicago and summers spent in the desert, skateboarding with his childhood best friend with whom he lost touch when his family moved from Nevada to Chicago to England in five years.

They talk about Brendon's work, about the music he makes for movies and the music he makes for himself; they talk about his family. About how bad things were when he first came out - how he didn't go home almost a year and how now his mom emails him in all caps if he doesn't call or write at least once every few weeks.

It's easy talking to Spencer, and it gets easier after a few glasses of wine and good food.

They lose track of time and suddenly their waiter is putting the check on the table. When Brendon bothers to look up the restaurant is mostly empty, maybe two other occupied tables in sight.

"We should maybe head out," Brendon says biting his lip, "It's kind of late."

Spencer looks around them. "I guess we should get out of here before the waiters try to kill us with their brains."

Brendon reaches for the check first, tries picking up the tab with, "You drove, I should pay," but Spencer doesn't allow it. They avoid all mentions of the word date and it's awkward trying to dance around it again, to not get too hopeful about whatever the fuck it is they're doing.

They end up splitting the bill, each paying for their own meal the way Brendon's done a million different times when he's out with Jon and Ryan or Greta and Patrick. He tries not to be disappointed, to not read too much into what it might _mean_ if Spencer's not even willing to let him just buy him dinner.

It's a quiet drive back to the cottage. Brendon's afraid to start talking, scared that if he starts trying to fill the void he won't be able to stop, seized by the stupid urge to try to make things less awkward.

It's not long before Spencer is turning down a road that looks mostly familiar - after a little while, Brendon is man enough to admit to himself that it's going to take a little while to get used to the neighborhood - and soon they're pulling up in front of the cottage. Spencer puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine, fingers tapping out a fast beat on the steering wheel.

Brendon doesn't get out right away, sits and fiddles with his seat belt for a second until he's sure he won't say anything too stupid. Then he turns to Spencer, both of them starting and stopping at the same time.

"You first," Brendon says, nervous laugh slipping out.

Spencer starts talking about something. Brendon tries to pay attention but Spencer keeps smiling at him, keeps playing with his hair and tapping, showing off so many different adorable nervous ticks that it's hard to pay attention to words. Brendon tunes back in when Spencer says, "Maybe we could do this again."

Brendon smiles, answers, "Absolutely." This time around he moves first, clicking open his seat belt and leaning across the car to kiss Spencer.

It's gentle at first, Brendon's smile just brushing against Spencer's lips. But then there's the click of another seat belt coming undone, too loud in with the quiet of the night and Spencer's leaning forward and meeting Brendon in the middle, fingers slipping into Brendon's hair and shifting so they're really kissing, mouths open slighting, lips sliding together.

They kiss for a while, until they've fogged up all the windows and somehow Brendon's managed to move across the car straddling Spencer, back pressed uncomfortably into the steering wheel, coat doing nothing to buffer the hard plastic. He ignores the pain, focusing on Spencer's mouth, on the hand squeezing his ass, on how, if he moved down a little, he could get some kind of friction going. Brendon grinds his hips down, smiles against Spencer's mouth when the hand on his ass squeezes harder, then says, "Fuck, ow," when his back hits the steering wheel as Spencer grabs his hips, pulls him forward.

"Shit. Sorry, sorry," Spencer apologizes, rubbing a hand up Brendon's back, "We should maybe stop."

Brendon sighs, forehead pressed against Spencer's shoulder, says, "Yeah, I guess. With my luck a cop will wander by or something anyway," and then after a moment adds, "Or we could just go inside where there's a couch. And a bed. And uh _stuff._ "

Spencer laughs, breath hot on Brendon's neck, "I do like _stuff._ " He adds, "But I can't stay, I have to be at work early tomorrow. I should go," with obvious reluctance.

Brendon tries not to be too disappointed - he can feel how much Spencer wants to stay pressed against his thigh - but it's hard not to, it sucks and jerking off is just not the same. They say their goodbyes - Spencer refuses to walk Brendon to the front door because, "If I get out of the car I'm not getting back in it until tomorrow." - and then Brendon heads in, alone.

*

The phone - Pete knows it's the phone this time, at least - rings sometime around 4 o'clock in the morning.

Pete considers not answering. He's not really sleeping - just laying in bed drifting in that space where you're not awake enough to do anything but not out of it enough to be considered asleep - but he's warm, comfy and relaxed. And answering the phone requires moving, even if it is just a few inches and talking, listening.

But it doesn't stop ringing and it flits across Pete's mind that most of the people with the number know Brendon's not in the country and it might be some sort of music emergency so he reaches out and picks it up.

"Brendon's house. This is Pete," Pete answers, trying and failing to hold in a yawn.

"You're a douchebag."

Pete smiles sitting up in bed, says, "Spence Wentz! I miss your ridiculously bearded face."

"Why are you trying to piss me off? Names don't work like that, asshole," Spencer says. He sounds more fond than annoyed, so Pete's not worried about fucking with him more. Spencer's one of the things making him homesick for England.

Pete laughs, "Stop being a tool of the patriarchy," and then he remembers how he kind of forgot to tell Spencer that he was going out of town, that he was leaving the _country_ and narrows his eyes at the phone a little, as if Spencer could get the look over a phone line three thousand miles away and says, "How'd you get this number anyway?"

Spencer starts to reply and Pete says, "Gotta put you on hold, dude, I think that's the caller ID." He's not exactly sure how to _get_ to the second line without hanging up on Spencer because all of Brendon's electronics seem to come with eight billion buttons - Pete's good with technology most of the time, as long as it's something he picked out - but he pokes at one of them and hopes it's the right one.

"What the fuck, Pete!" Brendon shouts and Pete thinks maybe Brendon doesn't realize he doesn't need to yell -- that the phones work just as well between houses and cities as they do across oceans.

"Brendon," he says and there's a blast of air that makes Pete wince. He says again, "Brendon," and wonders how long Spencer's going to stay on the other line before hanging up on his ass. Not long, he knows from experience, but it's almost fun to test him.

"What's wrong, dude?" Pete finally asks, when it doesn't seem like Brendon is going to say anything.

"You didn't tell me your brother was some super hot, _bearded, super hot dude_ , Pete." He's lost both the yelling and the sighing and Pete's relieved, except not.

"You know you said super hot twice, right?" Brendon sighs again and then there's the click of the other line hanging up. Pete checks, and it hasn't been very long, which only means Spencer's pissed and he'll be calling back. Awesome. Pete digs the heel of his hand into his eyes and wishes he hadn't answered the phone the first time. Sleep, he thinks, and instead says, "I take it you met Spence?"

"Met," Brendon says like he's trying the word on for size and Pete really doesn't want to know, doesn't want to have this conversation about _Spencer._ The things he could tell Brendon about Spencer and he won't, not yet, but he could. About Spencer falling down drunk after two glasses of champagne on his wedding day and slurring about vows and _the rest of his life, oh God._ Pete could.

He says, "Didn't you just break up with someone?" and immediately feels like a fucking tool. He's emailed Mikey once from L.A., just the final draft of his article for the next issue, and it had hurt to see Mikey's name, hurt in the dumbest way, his stupid ego stomped all to hell. He hasn't gotten the whole story from Brendon, but going all the way to England to get away from someone is more than just getting over a one night stand.

"Sorry, sorry," Pete says in a hurry before Brendon can respond. "I'm not your boss, okay, I just want to make sure you know that if you ever hurt Spencer I will kill you. Even though you have the best music collection I have ever seen. In my life."

There's a sort of, almost-laugh from the other end just as the second line beeps again.

"Hey, man, let me call you back." There's no way Pete can get away with ignoring Spencer for any longer. Pete clicks over, says, "Hi, little brother," voice dripping with false cheer.

"Fuck," Spencer whispers, voice gone quiet, "Look, I wasn't trying to lie, okay. It just. It popped out and I couldn't take it back after." Pete listens as Spencer tries to talk his way past the complete and utterly fucked up way he's managed to deal with Brendon.

He listens until Spencer says something about not sleeping over the second time and how that's got to count for something and jumps in, "Spencer," Pete sighs, "Spencer Smith the fifth. You fucked my house guest. My house guest who just had what I'm guessing is a pretty bad break-up since he traveled to _another country_ to swap houses with a _stranger_ and then told him you were my brother. But forgot to add the _in-law_ after it."

"Former, fuck-face. It's more omission than lie," Spencer says, adding, "And I didn't mean to do it, fuck. I like him and. I just like him and said something stupid."

Pete isn't even in a position to lecture anyone, ever, about their relationship shit. He's initiated ninety percent of the drama that's ended with him having keyed cars and a broken heart. But he can't help butting in here. "Anything else you didn't tell him?" When Spencer stays silent, pretty much confirming what Pete already assumed he adds, "Look, just be careful. He's probably on the rebound and you haven't been on a date in three years."

Spencer huffs out a breath; Pete's pretty sure he's rolling his eyes. "I'm always careful Pete. I'm just not usually this stupid. And I've been on dates. Kind of. Technically. Whatever."

Pete laughs, "Hey, you said it, not me. But seriously, if you get hurt or he gets pissed and burns down my house I'm going to kill you and then say I told you so. Just FYI."

There's no answer, just a click. Pete laughs to himself, a little sadly, says, "God I hope he doesn't fuck this up too badly," and then turns off the ringer and tries to get some sleep. The sun is just starting to rise; it's the perfect time to stop trying to think and get a few hours sleep.

*

Pete's standing in the kitchen in his boxers trying to decide which cereal would make the better breakfast and if it's unhygienic to scratch his ass so close to the food, when Patrick shows up to give him a tour around town. Pete's glad the gate's working the way it needs to again because he doesn't even know where the fuck the thingy to open it is. He still hasn't gotten around to reading the little notepad with instructions Brendon left on the side table for him.

They didn't exactly set a day and time but Pete doesn't know anyone - other than Gabe, who's texted him five times since Pete dropped him off even though Pete can't remember giving him his cell phone number - or have any plans so he's not going to complain.

The fact that Patrick maybe goes a little pink all down his neck at the sight of Pete standing around in nothing but boxers and tattoos doesn't hurt either.

"Uh," Patrick says and Pete smiles, makes a huge welcoming gesture, and says, "Come on in, man. I didn't know we were doing this now now or I would have gotten dressed." He adds a stupid smirk to the end and Patrick scowls at him before his eyes track halfway down Pete's chest and then jerk away. He crosses his arms over his chest and says, "Don't let me stop you."

He's looking at the wall off to Pete's side, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes, but Pete can still see the curve at the corner of his mouth where he's definitely not smiling.

Pete smiles, says, "Awesome," grabs the Fruity Pebbles from the pantry, raids Brendon's fridge for milk - still good, which is more than he can say for whatever is in his refrigerator back home - and pours himself a bowl. He holds out the bowl, makes the most innocent face he can - so not very - and asks, "Want some?" just to watch Patrick's eyes narrow, ears going darker red. Patrick says, "I'm good, thanks" and walks out of the kitchen saying, "I'll be in the living room when you're ready," over his shoulder.

Pete's always been a fan of being obnoxious - it's fun - but he's never met anyone that is so easy to work up and still willing to help him. He's not really sure what to think of it yet. He finishes up his breakfast quick and heads upstairs to throw on some clothes, a shower can wait - he took one earlier in the week so he's mostly clean.

Patrick seems like he's in a better mood when Pete tumbles down the stairs a few minutes later. Maybe it's because he's wearing more than boxers this time because Patrick even smiles up at him, saying, "Well that's a little more appropriate." Pete isn't sure what exactly Patrick's got planned exactly, but he's ready, wrapped up in a hoodie and tiny, tiny jeans, wearing his most awesome Nikes. Appropriate and ready.

*

"Brendon," Jon says when he finally answers. Brendon's called five times and he knows what time it is, knows all about time zones, thank you, but he keeps obsessing over Spencer, replaying their _not a date not a date_ and the two nights -- one morning -- they've spent together. It's all stupid shit like the way he smiled at dinner, or when he bumped his shoulder into Brendon's on the way back to the cottage. Stupid, tiny little things and also the mind-blowing way Spencer's mouth felt around his dick, his hold on Brendon's hair just tight enough.

"Jon Walker," Brendon says, as seriously as possible.

"Oh my god," Ryan says in the background and Brendon grins totally without meaning to. He could have called them earlier, when they were still coherent even, but he's been twitching around the house, picking things up and putting them down, messing around for a while on Pete's bass after he found it in the downstairs closet, but always too distracted to make anything good come of it. He almost can't believe he's staying, certainly can't believe that he's staying mostly because of Spencer.

"What do you want?" Jon says after what sounds like a brief scuffle. He doesn't sound that out of it, more high than tired probably and Brendon would call later but he doesn't think he can wait until they've gone to bed and then finally woken up. It's been too long already.

Brendon doesn't reply immediately, trying to figure out a way to say it that doesn't make it, him or Spencer, sound completely horrible. He doesn't reply until Jon prompts him again with a quiet, "Brendon."

Then Brendon says, "I met someone, fucked someone," in a rush and hopes that Jon doesn't make him say it again.

"Was this the same person?" is all Jon says. Brendon laughs, laughs into the back of his hand when he can't seem to actually stop. It feels maybe a little hysterical, but then he figures he's at least a little justified. Less than a week since Shane leaving and one fairly drastic trip across the world, he's definitely justified in being a tad hysterical.

When he finally calms down, Brendon can hear Jon talking to Ryan, Ryan saying something about how Brendon's a fucking idiot and other things Brendon's pretty sure he doesn't want to hear, not most of a continent and an ocean away from being able to hit Ryan for it.

"So," Jon says, dragging it out a bit before continuing in his best wise mentor voice, "You met someone, fucked them, and what? Are we talking one night stand or something else?"

There's some sort of warning in there, a hesitation maybe, that Brendon can't read exactly right. Brendon taps his fingers lightly against his thigh as he mumbles, "More than a one night stand." He feels like a teenager, something clawing at his gut as he tries to explain it to Jon.

Jon hums and there's the snick of a lighter in the background and Brendon can hear Jon taking a hit. He thinks about letting it all out while Jon's in no position to talk, but then, he's smoked up with them often enough to know exactly how long it'll take. Not nearly long enough for this one.

Brendon takes a deep breath and just starts talking, about Spencer and the flight and Pete's house and Spencer. He keeps circling back to Spencer and finally Jon just says, "Dude, it is way to early to be anywhere near that far gone on this dude," in this laughing sort of way that assures Brendon he's not completely disapproving.

Brendon smiles and says, "Shut up, asshole."

"But really," Jon says after a moment. "You and Shane just broke up, man. And I know I said taking a break could be a good idea, but there's a difference between taking a break and getting involved with the first dude you meet." He adds, "You know?" as a faint afterthought and Brendon can hear Ryan moving around in the background, can picture the way they move around each other, easy and practiced. Almost how he and Shane had been, way back when.

That one thought begins the flood and Brendon starts thinking about Shane and how it was so easy in the beginning. A one night stand that became more: quick hookups and then a real relationship and Brendon never thought, stumbling for his clothes in the early morning light, that they would last six years. Six fucking years and Brendon thinks about waking up wrapped around Shane, the way they'd bump hips moving around each other in the kitchen, and how Shane would lock himself in his editing room for days at a time.

Jon says his name and Brendon shakes his head, banishing memories that won't do any good right now. Brendon forces a laugh, says, "I'll be fine, promise," and, "It's getting late here, I'll call you again soon. Bye," hanging up before Jon calls him on his bullshit. Brendon knows he's got a habit for running headfirst into things, rushing in before he's really got a clear picture of what's going on but so far it's given just as much good as bad and there's no point not taking a chance when it feels mostly right. He can deal with the fallout later.

*

Brendon can't stop thinking about what Jon said after he hangs up. He tries to ignore it but he's never been good at not listening to Jon, so he tries to take a small step back after that. He still has a list of things that are awesome about England in his mind that begins and ends with Spencer but he's trying not to be quite so outwardly enthusiastic about it.

He doesn't call Spencer for a few days, limits things to a few texts so he doesn't seem quite so eager. Brendon doesn't think Jon is right, not exactly, but every time he thinks about doing something reckless and stupid with Spencer he gets a mental image of Jon - usually holding a tiny adorable kitten, because he fights dirty - asking him to think about it before he rushes in. It's really annoying.

Brendon needs to figure out what he's supposed to be doing, what he would have been doing with his days if his brain wasn't stuck on Spencer and sex and kissing - he has really, really missed kissing. He dicks around the house for a day or two, wandering around the village when he sucks it up enough to make the trek or playing around on Pete's bass. He jots down a few ideas for songs, songs that are for him and not whatever blockbuster his agent finds him next, but it's hard to really get a feel for a song on the bass and he gives up after a few tries. After he's tried everything he can think of, Brendon goes poking around Pete's house, through his DVDs and his pantry, his bathroom cabinet while he's brushing his teeth and then the chest at the foot of the bed. What's in the chest only makes Brendon like Pete more and he reaches out to touch before he thinks maybe he shouldn't.

He's tempted to call Pete right that second, to beg until Pete tells him exactly why there's a fucking furry costume in his bedroom, in a fucking _chest_ in his bedroom. Brendon is so tempted and it's the same instinct that stopped him from touching - the voice in the back of his head telling him that this is Pete's thing and if he had wanted Brendon to know, well. He would have said something - that stops him from picking up the phone now. Instead, he takes another good look at the bear costume, the large black eyes and the gentle curve of its smile, and shuts the lid.

He tells himself that if Pete wants him to know, Pete will tell him, but Brendon thinks about the bear suit for the rest of the day and later that night as he's laying in bed, trying to sleep.

*

Finally, Brendon goes online, looks up tour groups and maps, and finds a few things that look interesting - museums and art galleries - a whole city full of things he's never seen that don't begin and end with one person.

Brendon prints out a tube map and calls a cab, not quite ready to drive on the opposite side of the car alone, and heads to Portobello Road. He remembers too late that the car won't make the trip up the road to the house, grumbles all the way down the road before he gets to the spot his driver should be meeting him.

The ride goes by faster than Brendon would expect and soon he's in the middle of a crowd - not too many people - but enough to ease the tiny twinge of homesickness that had been steadily creeping up since he hung up with Jon. Even though he's still alone he can lose himself in the crowd and not notice it quite so much.

He wanders down the road for a while, avoiding the camera shop because it's still too much of a reminder of Shane, and ends up spending more money than he should on vintage clothes. Brendon texts Spencer when he's already blown about a hundred and fifty pounds - he's not sure exactly how much that is in dollars and is in no rush to find out - just a quick _i think coming to the portobello road market was bad for my bank acct_ before checking his guide again.

Brendon is just coming up on the book store, the one the little guide said had great non-western art references, when his phone rings. He glances down at the display and feels a smile breaking across his face, big and bright, and for once Brendon is glad that no one can see.

He picks up with a quiet, "Hey," smile still firmly in place.

"So how exactly can anything be bad for your bank account? Pete sent me a picture of that mansion you live in, I'm onto your secret oil magnate ways," Spencer says bypassing hello.

Brendon rolls his eyes even though Spencer can't see him, saying slowly, "It's not a mansion. Houses are just kind of big in that part of L.A."

Spencer laughs. "You have an in-ground pool. He said your living room is bigger than the entire _cottage._ I think it's okay if you spend a little on some clothes."

"Quit judging me, Smith. What are you up to tonight?" Brendon asks, looking over the list of restaurants along the road. He's still taking Jon's advice, kind of, but that doesn't mean he can't see Spencer at all.

Spencer doesn't answer right away, takes maybe a half-second too long to say, "I'm working. One of the many perks to being in the music industry is working Saturday nights."

Brendon sighs quietly, tries not to let the disappointment color his voice says, "So you have a show or something tonight? Gonna do the smokey bars and mediocre bands thing?" Brendon laughs because he's been to those types of shows, he's _played_ those kinds of shows, it's never really a good thing for anybody.

"Oh god, no. I'm working at home, I need to finish up a couple things before Sunday. It's not that big of a deal." Spencer stops for a second. "Why, what are you doing?"

"I was going to ask you out to dinner. There are a bunch of really great-looking restaurants here, it would have been awesome," Brendon replies, playing with the bent edge of the guide booklet.

Spencer hmms, "That does sound great. I'd have probably let you cop a feel, maybe. If the food was _really_ good."

"You know, you're kind of a tease," Brendon laughs. "Not that I mind or anything."

Spencer laughs too, and says, "Good to know you don't mind." There's a crash over the line, it sounds not too far off and Spencer swears before saying, "Hey, I have to run, I'll talk to you later, okay?"

He hangs up before Brendon has a chance to do anything more than say goodbye to the dial tone.

Brendon stares at his phone for a second, then spots a sign on a nearby restaurant window and gets an idea.

*

Patrick takes him to this sweet little diner first. It's a small little hole in the wall place, not trendy, not at all, and Pete feels like he's back in Chicago, late at night hanging out with friends at the diner down the street from school, dicking around in the parking lot.

They eat grilled cheese and some of the best pie Pete's had in years and Pete misses home so badly for a minute there, sitting across from Patrick and talking about everyone they hung out with back then. Even though Patrick is a few years younger than him, there are people they both knew, stories Pete tells that make Patrick's jaw fall open, his eyes widen. Patrick even gets one of his own in, a story that Pete's never heard about Joe Trohman and firecrackers.

Even after they're finished eating, after the waitress has come by twice with coffee refills and a sweet smile, they don't leave. It's not until Patrick gets a text that either of them realizes what time it is.

"Fuck," Patrick says, rolling his eyes at his phone. He taps out a response while Pete sketches out an old baseline on the tabletop. He's forgotten most of the chords, but it doesn't really matter when Patrick looks up, says, "Hey, you have the rest of the afternoon free, right? I mean, there's this fucking amazing record shop down the street and that's kind of what I had in mind, but if it's been too long- If you already have plans, I mean."

He trails off, fiddling with his coffee cup, and Pete says too quickly, "Yeah, man. Yeah. I don't have any plans, we should totally check that out."

Patrick drops a couple bills onto the table and when Pete goes to tug out his own wallet he says, "It's good, I got it." Pete stares at him for a couple seconds, and he wants to argue because he can totally pay for himself, but Patrick's not looking at him and he thinks he's gonna have to let this one go. Not like he can't get him back later.

"So this record store," Pete starts and Patrick says, "Is fucking _amazing._ " Pete grins and tucks his hands into his front pockets, content to follow Patrick back to his car. Content to follow Patrick just about anywhere at this point.

And it's not exactly a surprise -- Pete started trusting Patrick just after they got to the diner, when Patrick steered him toward the booth in the corner, the one with the curve even though it's only the two of them -- when the record store is fucking amazing, bins and bins of records and Pete just wants to touch them all. He's standing just inside the doorway, taking it all in, and when he finally looks over at Patrick Patrick's looking at _him,_ and for a second Pete gets it. "Fuck," Pete says and Patrick is totally his most favorite. Ever.

They wander around for a while, browsing and reminiscing when they find a album they haven't seen in years, something so long out of print that it's hard for either of them to walk away without buying it. Patrick picks up a copy of Midtown's last album, starts going on and on about how it's underrated and the message they were trying to send and Pete can't help it, he starts laughing.

Patrick looks embarrassed and pissed for a second before Pete explains says, "No, no, dude, I'm not laughing at you. Gabe Saporta lives down the street from Brendon. He decided to adopt me into his circle of 'gentlemen of leisure' or whatever the fuck he calls it."

"Brendon never said anything. That's awesome," Patrick replies, eyes shining a little. Pete laughs again, says "I could introduce you, next time you come over," and, "Seriously, come share the crazy with me."

Patrick smiles, looks down, then back up at Pete and says, "It's a date."

*

Patrick pulls into Brendon's driveway a couple hours later, and he's still talking about this tiny band he saw last week, staring off into the distance and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Pete doesn't want to let him leave.

"You want some coffee?" he asks, during one of Patrick's longer pauses.

Pete can see the way Patrick sort of stumbles, so set on this band -- _this amazing fucking band, Pete, you have to hear them_ \-- that the change in topics makes him stop, hesitate for a second longer than normal.

"Uh," Patrick says and Pete smiles, trying not to use the creepy smile, the one with all of his teeth. Patrick blinks and Pete thinks maybe he wasn't so successful.

"Or alcohol," Pete offers and then, _fuck, that's not right,_ says, "Not like. I don't want to get you drunk or anything, take advantage of you. Ha. Uh."

Patrick's staring at him now, eyes wide underneath his hat, and Pete just smiles again, the creepy one slipping out on purpose this time.

"Dude," Patrick says, looking ahead then glancing back at Pete sideways, "You know you look insane when you smile like that right? I mean you can't not know this, right?"

Pete laughs, his obnoxious loud donkey laugh, "You're ruining all my awesome attempts at charming you. Just come hang out with me."

"I can't. I was supposed to meet Greta an hour ago, and she's scary when she's mad," Patrick sighs. "Rain check?"

Pete tries to smile, not sure if what shows up on his face is anywhere near what one should look like, says, "Sure, yeah. Sounds good." He's not sure why he's surprised that Patrick has a girlfriend, that the girl Patrick said he saw everyday would be expecting him . But Pete had let it slip his mind, liked every time it seemed like Patrick was maybe flirting with him just a little too much.

Pete tries not to get out of the car too fast, tries not to actually look like he's trying to escape and says, "Listen I'm gonna head in, next time we'll all hang. Me, you and your girl Greta," and then he's out of the car and at the door before Patrick can say anything else.

*

Brendon has always been a big fan of surprises - he's never exactly had that many good surprises in his life in but he generally thinks they're pretty awesome. Even though he hasn't had a chance to talk to Spencer since early in the afternoon he figures that stopping by with dinner - take-out because he has never been able to cook anything more complicated than Hot Pockets - seems like a great idea.

He's a little nervous, they haven't seen each other at all on Spencer's 'turf' yet, but it's about as familiar as Pete's cottage anyway so he's not stressing it too much.

There's noise and lights and _warmth_ and a knot forms in Brendon's stomach, a ball of anxiety that says maybe this wasn't his best idea ever. But _Spencer_ and the anticipation of the look on his face is enough that Brendon knocks anyway, three quick taps, before stepping back a little, not too close to the door. He hears one, two, three sets of footsteps and he didn't think about Spencer having company, didn't think he would maybe just be an inconvenience, showing up like this. Brendon's starting to edge back, out of the circle of light on the doorstep, when the door opens on three smiling faces. Two of which are staring up at Brendon with baby-toothed smiles.

"Uh," Brendon says, and he probably looks like an idiot, standing there with his mouth open, staring at them, all three of them. There's one with dark hair, one with light, and one's a little smaller, but they look about the same age. "Uh," Brendon says again. This is not exactly the surprise he was thinking tonight would include. Not at all.

"Brendon," Spencer says and he's got a hand on one boy's shoulder, the other braced against the door frame. He looks long and gorgeous, relaxed and completely at home except for the set of his mouth, a thin, straight line.

"I didn't realize, I should go," Brendon says, babbling a bit, and he turns to go, run, fuck, because _holy shit,_ how did he get this so wrong. He hears Spencer say, "Brendon, wait," and there's the distinct edge of something before he says, quieter, "Stay in the house."

"Brendon, _Brendon,_ " Spencer says and then, "Fuck. Could you just wait for a second?" He sounds exasperated, frustrated, _something_ and Brendon stops. "I was going to tell you," he says, quietly, and Brendon can't look at him. Spencer has _kids,_ two of them, and okay, they haven't known each other for long, but they've gone on a date, talked for hours, and oh yeah, _slept together._ Spencer never mentioned kids, _two of them,_ and Brendon's maybe freaking out. Brendon thinks maybe he has the right to freak out, at least a little.

"Surprise," Brendon mumbles and it's not supposed to be loud enough for Spencer to hear but he must because he sighs and says Brendon's name again, says, "I was going to tell you, really." He sounds tired, and Brendon can feel himself cracking already.

"I don't tell everyone," Spencer says, voice quietly fierce, "They're mine and I'm not giving someone, someone I've fucked once, the chance to shit on them," and Brendon swings all the way from freaking out to feeling like a super-huge asshole in under five seconds flat. It's kind of amazing.

Brendon drops his shoulders, but can't get himself to turn around, not yet.

"I was going to tell you," Spencer says one more time and this time it's a lot easier for Brendon to believe him. He turns when Spencer's fingers curl around his wrist, when Spencer says, "Hey. Hey, why don't you come in? I made hot cocoa and well."

Spencer trails off and finally Brendon just nods, can't trust himself to say anything not stupid. Spencer's fingers tighten around his wrist for just a second.

*

They're three and five they tell Brendon, Cash holding up all five fingers proudly while Alex shyly holds three up from his hiding spot behind Spencer. Spencer's got one hand on Alex's head, trying to gently coax him out from behind his knees and he's smiling sort of hesitantly, like this is as nerve-wracking for him as it is for Alex.

It's pretty nerve-wracking for Brendon too. He's always been good with kids, his nieces and nephews around constantly before he took off for California, and even occasionally now that he's got the space to hold them all. He's never had problems being the life of the party, entertaining even the youngest, most unimpressed of his siblings' children, but this is different. This is Spencer and Spencer's kids and Brendon smiles, wide and bright and sincere.

"Hey," he says and Cash says, "Daddy made hot cocoa!" and then, "Daddy, it's gonna get cold!"

Spencer smiles and sends a wink Brendon's way before saying, "Well, we better drink it then," and grabbing at Cash's sides, sending him into a fit of giggles and flailing limbs.

Brendon catches the shy smile Alex sends his way and it's easy to say, "Betcha' we can beat 'em to it." Alex gives him a real smile and a nod and then he's off, leading Brendon into the kitchen and right up to the mugs all set up on the counter, ready and waiting to be filled.

"At the table," Spencer says, trailing after them, Cash in tow. There's something in his voice, some sense of authority maybe, that Brendon's never heard, can't help but find incredibly sexy. The boys sit without complaint, though Cash says, "I want five marshmallows," and right after Alex follows with, "Me too! I want five too."

"Yes, yes," Spencer tells them and then to Brendon says, "Sit, I've got this." He adds a sweet little smile that makes Brendon's breath catch for just a second.

The boys chatter on and on at each other while Spencer finishes up the last touches on the cocoa and Brendon tries to listen to them and watch Spencer at the same time. It's not easy. Spencer's easy movements remind him of that first night, the way Spencer moved over him in bed. The boys seem to have their own language too, something more than just their accents, and it's difficult for Brendon to parse a lot of it. Even when he stops watching Spencer's ass and focuses on just listening to them.

Alex says, "He got more," before Spencer's even finished setting them on the table. Brendon remembers pretty damn well what it's like to be the youngest and he covers his smile with the back of his hand.

"He did not," Spencer replies, easily. "He got five and you got five."

There's another wry look that goes right over the boys' heads and Brendon's suddenly really glad he came over. His takeout is going cold on the counter and he's pretty sure he's not getting laid any time soon, but he's met Spencer's kids, gets to hang out with them, and that's worth more than even the best takeout.

Getting to the bottom of their mugs involves a number of silly faces and a plea from Alex to, "do the voice, Daddy, do the voice!" It involves Spencer doing the voice, high-pitched and nasally and an exact replica of three of the execs Brendon knows back in LA. There are marshmallow bubbles that make Spencer's face screw up in disgust and Brendon laughs like he hasn't in a while.

Alex and Cash drag through the last few sips and Brendon only gets why when Spencer says, "Alright, guys, bedtime," and they both frown and grumble.

It's Alex who says, "You're staying, right? You can see our tent." Brendon looks at Spencer and he's not sure what his face looks like right then, stunned, happy and unsure, but Spencer nods, smiles, and says, "It's a pretty cool tent."

"Okay, yeah," Brendon says and follows them up the stairs.

It is a pretty cool tent, it looks like it started out as a transformers bed sheet with each Bumblebee repainted in an almost neon yellow, and Brendon touches it gently.

"Come on, the inside's better," Cash tells him, tugging on his hand. Brendon crawls in behind them, Spencer behind him. There's not a lot of space, but it's just enough for the four of them. The inside of the tent is covered in glow-in-the-dark stars, moons and planets; the entire solar system laid out across the ceiling and walls.

"Did you do this?" Brendon says after a moment of silence, his voice coming out sort of awed, breathless. Spencer nods, shifts slightly, and says, "We did." They lay in silence after that, all of their breathing falling in and out of rhythm, delicately.

Spencer's voice startles Brendon a while later, the quiet, "I think they're out," sneaking up on him. He watches as Spencer manages to crawl out easily enough, that ease born out of familiarity, and Brendon is thankful he doesn't fall on one of the boys when he follows.

Spencer hits the lights, looking back at the still faintly glowing tent for a second before leading Brendon down the stairs. The silence lingers with them for a bit and it's Brendon who finally breaks it, he says, "They're great. Really."

Spencer doesn't respond, he just curls a hand around the back of Brendon's neck and kisses him.

*

Pete doesn't feel guilty about taking a few days to wallow in self pity. It was stupid to start crushing on somebody so soon after Mikey and Alicia, to think that anything good or fun would just fall into his lap when the world had been shit for so long.

He fills a few pages of one of his brand new notebooks with words about crushing and being crushed, about stolen kisses and secret smiles. Pete writes until he doesn't feel like such a loser, until the urge to keep pushing Patrick - the urge to flirt and touch and prod - to push every boundary to see if Patrick pushes back fades a little. Not completely, it never does, but enough.

Gabe calls before Pete's really ready to deal with people, orders him to come over, muttering something about how, "I'm too old to entertain myself and my intern is being a flake. Come sing me a song of youth," and doesn't stop texting him for two hours straight - sometimes just one word at a time - until Pete promises he's on the way.

Pete takes his time getting dressed, starts ignoring his phone when it's inching close to an hour since he told Gabe he was on his way and then he finds his shoes, finds the keys and heads out. He's really not in the mood for people in general, or for Gabe's _Gabeness_ , but Pete's learned you just can't ignore the Cobra. Especially when he lives two houses away and probably - Pete hasn't had a chance to ask Brendon yet - has a key to the door and the code for the front gate.

Pete feels weird driving over - it's only two houses down - but there isn't really any sidewalk and he's not sure what Gabe has planned, how long he'll have to hang out before it's cool for him to leave, so he figures driving is for the best.

He walks in to the sight of Gabe's ass in the air as he crawls around on the floor searching for something, phone pressed to his ear.

Gabe yells at someone to "give the phone to Cass right now, motherfucker," voice muffled a little by the angle he's in before he waves Pete in and puts the call on speakerphone so he doesn't have to stop searching for whatever the fuck he's lost.

"Cassadee Elizabeth Marie or whatever-the-hell-your-middle-name-is Pope. Where the fuck are you?"

Pete is always surprised at how Gabe manages to make the word fuck sound like a term of endearment, the way most people say "sweetie" or "honey." One day he's going to figure out how to make that work for him too.

But he's still not sure why exactly Gabe needs an intern when he's supposed to be retired. He'd asked, but Gabe had given some typical non-answer, just said, "Every adult wants a minion to do their bidding at some point, so why shouldn't I have an intern in my twilight years?" and he'd laughed Pete off when Pete had replied, "You're not even 40 yet. Unless you mean the years you sit around reading _Twilight_ over and over pretending you're the less creepy version of Edward, these are not your twilight years."

There's a lot of background noise, some giggling before the girl - Cassadee - comes through and says, "Gabe! Gabe, oh my god. Gabe we're on a boat!"

Gabe snorts, throws a pair of tiny shorts with _Bounce, Bounce_ stitched across the ass over the back of the couch still searching, and says, "Is this boat bringing you here and that's why you're an hour late?"

"Um," Cassadee says, pausing and the sound is muffled for a second, like she's got her hand over the mouthpiece, "Would you believe that we were kidnapped by pirate ninjas and that we totally didn't forget you asked us to pick up something for you?"

Pete hasn't met her yet but he already likes this Cassadee kid. His grandfather would have said she had _moxie_ for going with the dumbest lie for flaking out he's ever heard - Pete made up some pretty spectacularly stupid shit as a child so he likes to think he's an expert - and sticking to it like anyone in the neighborhood of their right mind would believe it.

Gabe doesn't bother responding, just hangs up, then says, "It's really hard to find good help these days." He seems to give up looking for whatever it is that's missing - he still hasn't actually told Pete what it is or why he needed him here - and says, "It'd probably be easier if I stopped hiring kids that randomly show up at my door. And you know, paid for it."

Pete raises an eyebrow, "That's generally how these things work. You pay them and then they show up for work."

"Peter, these children show up at my door looking to learn from a master. I'm doing a public service letting them work for me," Gabe pauses. "Besides who else is going to volunteer to make me a robot costume?"

"Do I want to know why you need a robot costume?" Pete asks, a little scared.

Gabe stands, eyes lighting up and walks over to Pete throwing one of his entirely-too-long arms across Pete's shoulders and asks, "How do the words _Costume Strip Poker_ sound to you?" not waiting for Pete to answer. He keeps talking about his little group of friends from his rock star days, how the only thing better than poker and stripping is the added bonus of out of season Halloween costumes, steering Pete toward the door.

Pete tries to dig his heels into the carpet, to stay put until Gabe explains where the fuck he thinks they're going but Gabe is tall, persistent and doesn't stop pulling until they're in the driveway in front of the car. "What the fuck, Gabe? You don't play strip poker at Christmas."

Gabe rolls his eyes, says, "I'm Jewish. This is why you need to pay attention to your elders." Gabe starts talking slowly, eyes wide like he's explaining something very important to a small, overly serious child, "We are going to find me a robot costume. And if you stop being a little bitch about it I'll get you something nice too," and then he stops for a second, looks Pete up and down, asks, "How do you feel about Teletubbies?"

Pete smiles for the first time all day. "I knew there was a reason I hung out with you." Gabe snorts and says, "Because I'm fucking sexy. Now get in the car, we've got costumes to find."

*

Pete doesn't mean to tell Gabe about Patrick. It's not that Gabe wouldn't listen - because he would, he's that kind of friend - but Pete's instincts usually don't lead him astray and as far as Gabe is concerned they scream that nothing good can come of him knowing about Pete's lame-ass crush.

But Gabe is so completely invested in trying on costumes, so unselfconscious about it and excited that he's shopping with someone as into it as he is that Pete can't help answering when Gabe looks at him in the mirror and asks, "Why were you being such an emo kid? You are way too old for that shit." It's hard to bother filtering when Gabe's tried on ball gowns, asking the sales boys if they think it makes his ass look fat, and then in the next breath getting super serious about Pete's moods.

Pete sighs, says, "Patrick has a girlfriend and it's bullshit."

"Do I know this Patrick person?" Gabe asks.

"He works with Brendon. Short, wears hats and awesomely tight jeans, has awesome taste in music. Any of that ringing a bell?"

Gabe furrows his brow, taps a finger to his chin, "Nope. I remember all those who cross my path wearing tight jeans."

Pete sighs, "I figured. He didn't know you lived around here and Brendon doesn't seem like the type to really keep a secret for long."

Gabe snorts, mumbles, "Brendon doesn't actually know I was in Midtown." He pauses for a second. "He thinks I'm an eccentric rich guy, which isn't exactly far from the truth. It's kind of adorable."

"That's kind of fucked up, Gabe," Pete replies.

"Eh, whatever. Tell me more about your boy Patrick," Gabe says. "What does this kid have that's making you so emo?"

Pete thinks about what makes Patrick so special. It's nothing he can put his finger on exactly, he just knows that Patrick's awesome. He tells Gabe about the way Patrick talks about music, the passion he has for so many different genres, Pete tells him about the way Patrick talks with his hands, about his smile. Pete talks until he notices the way Gabe's looking at him, smile way too soft and sweet for any good, and asks, "What?"

Gabe smiles again, slaps Pete lightly in the face says, "You're in love! You kids grow up so fast."

"Fuck you, he has a girlfriend."

"Is this girlfriend hotter than you? Does she know her boyfriend's been flirting with you? I'm thinking all signs point to no, so you could totally steal him. Pretend you're British, fake an accent and sweep him off his feet."

Pete drags a hand through his hair - dirty since he still hasn't bothered to shower - and tries not to get distracted by the awesome bunny costume in the corner as he explains that he hasn't even seen the girlfriend and it's not like that. It's way too soon to be crushing on anyone, let alone one of the two friends he's made since he got back into the country.

Gabe snorts at that and says, "Somebody who sees strangers wearing my clothes on the street and stops to give them a ride is not exactly gonna have any trouble making friends and influencing people. Stop being such a pussy about it."

Pete rolls his eyes, saying, "Whatever man," and then he spots a bit of silver peaking out from behind something he's pretty sure is a Wookie costume and points. "I think we found your robot, go try it on."

Gabe jumps in the air, doing a little bit of a scissor kick, says, "Fuck yeah, robots represent." He slaps Pete on the ass, groping way more than Pete ever wants to think about before running off for the costume.

*

Brendon sees Spencer twice in the week leading up to Christmas. Spencer's kids are off school, his parents have flown in and Brendon knows they don't really have time to try to do whatever the hell they're doing. Things are good, _great_ , but Brendon's smart enough to know that a family's holiday time is not something you intrude on.

His plan is to spend the last few days before Christmas alone and spend Christmas day drinking all of Pete's wine. Even if he is alone in a foreign country; this was the original idea - hang out in the cottage with the dog and the internet away from people and ex-boyfriend's and any other sort of distraction.

Brendon checks his email, it's the first time he's thought to since he's arrived - he'd been a little distracted with sex and Spencer and sex - and there are a few from Greta about work, one from Patrick dated the day after he left with the subject line _the hot jackass in your house_ , one from Jon with a picture of Dylan, Clover and Hobo in Santa hats, a few from Gabe with increasingly ridiculous subject lines and one from Pete with just one line: _is the costumed strip poker thing on Christmas eve the norm around here?_. Brendon has no idea what the fuck Pete is talking about but his best guess is _Gabe_. He knows Gabe is too stubborn to ask for company when he's feeling lonely so a costumed strip poker game on Christmas Eve to keep his house loud and full of people seems just about right.

He sends off a quick reply to Pete telling him to "go with it" and that "Gabe means well and gives good advice when he's not fucking with you." He follows up with Greta, texts Jon and leaves the rest of his inbox for later.

Brendon is thinking about what to do with the rest of his morning when he gets a text from Spencer around eleven - it's three days before Christmas - inviting him to go sledding with the boys. He thinks about saying no, he still doesn't want to intrude, but there are tiny children, snow and Spencer on the horizon so he texts back asking for details while he goes to get his boots.

"They're pretty awesome," Brendon says, tucking himself into Spencer's side as the boys go careening down the path ahead of them. The ground is covered in snow and Brendon never imagined having a white Christmas.

"I've never had snow at Christmas before," Brendon says, slipping one hand into Spencer's pocket. "I've never even been sledding before. I grew up in Nevada and then moved to California."

Spencer laughs, "Don't let the boys hear that, they'll make sad faces at you and then tackle you into the snow."

Brendon smiles, "You act like I wouldn't like that. I'm in for all snow adventures."

Later, after they've put the boys to bed, all worn out from sledding and snow ball fights, Brendon gets ready to head back to the cabin. He's at the door gloves in hand and ready to head out when Spencer says, "Stay," voice quiet. "It's too late for you to head back now and. I make awesome pancakes."

*

"It probably won't work, you know," Brendon says, sort of absently. They're curled up in bed, their conversation skipping through the most random topics. He's been thinking about this one since he talked to Jon. He's going back to L.A. eventually and Spencer, Spencer has a family and two kids. Brendon's considered asking Spencer to come with him, considered moving his life to England, but all he's managed to come up with is "long distance relationships don't work."

"They don't if you don't try," Spencer says, Brendon making lazy hands at him as he rolls away for a second. As Spencer moves the sheets slide back to reveal the long, smooth line of his back and Brendon's almost able to ignore the inevitable end of this in favor of all that warm, pale skin.

"But just because you do-" Brendon starts and Spencer cuts him off with his fingers, curling them around Brendon's wrist and squeezing once, twice, and then just steady pressure, not going anywhere.

"What if we didn't?" Spencer's voice is quiet, eyes half-closed in the low light. He's back, his chin pressed against Brendon's shoulder, his mouth close enough that Brendon can feel him breathing, slowly, in and out, in and out. Brendon thinks about not waking up to Spencer, those blue, blue eyes and his hair a rough mess, about not seeing Spencer's boys again, their silly smiles and funny kid-way of saying things. Brendon thinks about what it would be like without the three of them and it hurts, a sudden stabbing pain in his chest that makes his breath go funny, makes his brain go blank and any real thinking difficult. He doesn't know if he could do it, just let them go.

"It would be hard," he says finally. "I could fly back every month or two or you guys could come stay with me, but the boys, they have school."

Brendon feels Spencer nod more than he sees it.

"They do," he says and his voice is starting to blur around the edges. Brendon curls as close as possible, tucking his hands into Spencer's side. He falls asleep pretty quickly after that, lulled by the rhythm of Spencer's steady breathing.

When Brendon wakes up in the morning Spencer's still asleep beside him, warm and solid pressed all along his back. There's a steady press at his bladder, the slow beginning of a hungry rumble in his stomach, and all Brendon wants is to stay right here, curled up sleeping with Spencer. He lasts less than ten minutes, breathing a little wetly against Spencer's skin, mouth pressed to his shoulder.

He's in the kitchen, struggling with the damn coffeemaker exactly as does he every morning, when Spencer finds him, wraps his arms around Brendon's waist and presses his face into Brendon's neck. "It could work," he mumbles and Brendon thinks that it must, Spencer uses it every morning, right. He thinks Spencer must be talking about the coffeemaker for a good thirty seconds, a whole minute, before he remembers what they were talking about in bed, the night before.

Spencer says, "The top button, that one," and stays pressed up against him as Brendon finally gets the damn thing to work.

Brendon turns and Spencer shuffles back to let him, bracing his hands against the counter as he gives Brendon the space to move. Brendon makes a face at him and Spencer rolls his eyes, one corner of his mouth curling up into an almost smile.

"It could work," Spencer says again, his eyes on Brendon's this time, as if he's making sure that Brendon gets it. Brendon just nods, biting into his lip. It could work and it could not and Brendon knows that nothing ends up how you plan. Watching Shane leave, silent and easy, had shown him that, that even loving someone so much it hurt, deep in your chest and all the way out to the tips of your fingers, didn't stop them from leaving you.

"One day at a time," Brendon says after a few moments. "We'll take it one day at a time."

*

Pete keeps hanging out with Patrick off and on for the week leading up to Gabe's party but he always manages to have something else to do, some other plan whenever Patrick mentions Greta. It's not that he doesn't want to meet her - he's sure she's awesome if she can pull Patrick - but he's really not ready for that yet.

He doesn't tell Patrick about the costume party/poker game/whatever the fuck because it's on Christmas Eve and most people have families and traditions, things they can't blow off just to go play strip poker with a retired rock star and bunch of his eccentric friends. But mostly Pete doesn't want to watch Patrick or, well, boyfriend-Patrick in action.

Pete ends up running late for Gabe's party. He spends a hour searching for his phone, worried that he's missed a text from Patrick - they had brunch that morning and ended up spending a few hours talking about Pete's old hardcore band and the hardcore scene in Chicago - or a call from his mom yelling about him being back in the States without telling her because Spencer can be a massive bitch sometimes and Pete forgot to make him promise not to tell.

Pete thinks 'fuck it', grabs the head of his Teletubby costume and heads out to the car. He drives over to Gabe's, once again struck by the silliness of having to drive to get somewhere two houses away and it's not until he's sitting out front, looking up at the Cobra banner that he notices a buzzing sound coming from inside the car. He digs around under both seats until he finds his sidekick and an envelope with Gabe's name on it that has a return address from MTV. Pete's not sure how that got into the car but he's glad for his phone, only three missed calls - none from his mom, thank god - and twenty texts that he doesn't really have time to deal with.

He takes a deep breath, grabs the head of his costume and goes inside.

It's loud, smokey and crowded inside - pretty much exactly what Pete expected from a party thrown by Gabe, none of the _poor little retired man_ bullshit he likes to say.

Pete heads toward the living room that's filled with people he doesn't know in all kinds of costumes - there's a curly haired blond flapper, a mummy, a banana and someone in the awesome rabbit costume Pete and Gabe had passed a few days earlier when they were shopping - and Pete starts to walk over to mingle when a silver clad arm drops across his shoulders.

"Peter! You're late. What if you missed my announcement?" Gabe says, squeezing Pete tight against his chest - currently covered in shiny hard cardboard - and smacks a kiss against Pete's forehead. "We're setting up in the dining room, little Teletubby, let's go."

Pete lets Gabe steer him into the dining room only looking back at the awesome bunny once. There's a long formal dining table that's big enough to fit maybe ten people if they all squeeze in tight but there are way more than ten people in the house and Pete isn't really sure how this is supposed to work.

"Have you met the boys?" Gabe asks, not waiting for a reply before saying, "The young dandy is my darling William," the guy tips his hat at Pete. He would probably look more in character if he was drinking straight from a bottle of Jack. Gabe keeps introducing people, "That badass motherfucker over in the corner is Travis, he is the best Shaft. The guy in the Speedo is Andy but you may call him The Butcher and Donatello is Nate." Gabe stops, looks around for a second, "The rest of these fuckers are just here for free booze, I don't even know some of these people. Sit down we're playing poker."

Pete sits. He ends up next to William who flashes his sharp pointed teeth at him as he pours another drink and says, "Gabe speaks very highly of you Peter. He says you are the very best of his young charges." Pete stares for a second unsure what the fuck he's supposed to say to that then says, "Um, thanks? I guess. How do you know Gabe?"

William laughs, then winces when his fangs catch his lip and pops them out of his mouth, "Travis and I used to have a _thing_ with him. It was all very sexy and dirty until he met that harlot."

"Sorry man. That's gotta suck to be at his party after that," Pete says. It's kind of awkward trying to comfort a stranger you're dressed as Tinky Winky.

William shrugs, "Eh. It's not that big of a deal. It was only like an hour ago, and blondie doesn't look like the type to put out." William looks up, and Pete follows his lead watching Gabe come back in with the blond flapper, the bunny and half a dozen other people in various costumes, he says, "Oh, speak of the devil."

The bunny waves one white paw at Pete and Pete waves back; glad that the person with the best costume is friendly. The game, when it starts, is pretty cutthroat. Pieces of costumes being lost left and right, Pete loses both his hands and his head, Gabe loses the legs of his costume and William loses his hat, bitching about people taking things they don't deserve.

Pete's thinking about maybe tapping out before he ends up naked when the Bunny folds, and tugs off his head and it's Patrick. He smiles at Pete from across the table, says, "I fucking suck at this game," before telling the table he's out and following Gabe's direction to the bathroom. Pete tries to have a conversation with Gabe with his eyebrows but it doesn't really work and Pete ends up tapping out and pulling Gabe along with him toward the kitchen.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Pete asks, when they've got a little bit of privacy.

Gabe grabs a beer out of the fridge and leans back against the counter, he asks, "What? Don't get all pissed I won your hands, it's not my fault you suck at poker."

Pete almost growls in frustration, "Why is Patrick here? You said you didn't know him, what. the. fuck. Gabe."

"Oh yeah. I stole your phone a few weeks ago and invited him since you sure as hell weren't going to do it." Gabe takes a drink, "P.S. How could you not mention the mouth, goddamn I would do so many dirty, dirty things to that- Hey Patrick!" Gabe cuts himself off, looking off over Pete's shoulder, "We were just talking about you."

Patrick looks between Pete and Gabe, Pete can imagine one of his eyebrows going on up under the rim of his hat. "Okay," he says, a hint of confusion in his voice.

Gabe grabs a beer from the refrigerator and takes a drink before saying, "Brendon had no business hiding you from me, when he gets home we'll have to have a little talk about sharing is caring and all that other good shit." Then he walks out of the kitchen and heads back into the poker game yelling something about "somebody better be naked by now," as he goes.

"Gabe thinks you're a keeper," Pete says, he smiles, glad that Patrick didn't overhear anything embarrassing. "Now you'll never get rid of him."

Patrick laughs, looking down at his pink bunny suit covered feet and says, "That's okay. He's not so bad when he's not trying to get a reaction out of people." Patrick looks up, "You ready to head back in? I think the guy in the Speedo is winning."

Pete's not really up for a game with a crowd of strangers even if normally he'd be trying to lose just for the chance at being the first one naked. "I'm not really up for seeing Gabe's dick ever. I was gonna grab a couple beers and hang out by the pool."

"You have weird friends and good plans," Patrick says. He gestures toward the backyard, "Show me this pool."

Pete grabs three beers, Patrick grabs two more and they head toward the sliding glass doors and out past the tiny guest house to the pool. Pete pulls off the bottom half of his costume, glad that he picked out a multi-piece suit and remembered to put on underwear this time, and sits down on the edge of the pool feet skimming the top.

He gestures for Patrick to join him and it's not long before they're both sitting half in costume, half out, working their way through beer number two - Pete has a nice buzz going but he's not sure when his alcohol tolerance got so low - and talking. They've gone from talking about Bowie to Labyrinth to Star Wars to the scores of John Williams. They end up arguing about the way he scored Harry Potter, Pete doesn't really have a negative opinion about it - his brain mainly gets stuck on Harry Potter! when he sees anything to do with the series - but Patrick is really hot when he's all fired up and Pete can't help poking the bear.

Pete's not sure how it happens or who moves first, but one minute he's finishing off what is maybe beer number three while trying to think of something ridiculous to counter Patrick's latest argument and then they're kissing. His hand is sliding gently up Patrick's jaw and Patrick has a hand fisted in the bulky top half of his costume, tongue darting out along Pete's lower lip.

It's awesome and Pete doesn't want to stop but there's this voice in the back of Pete's mind that's telling him they can't do this. The voice is low, fuzzy, like it's coming through an old TV and Pete would love to just tell it to go fuck itself so he can concentrate on turning the awesome kissing times into naked kissing times.

Pete's thinking about getting a hand into Patrick's boxers when he hears the soft click of something against the stone surrounding the pool and there's a soft laugh and a voice Pete doesn't recognize saying, "Why do I never have a camera for these things? That is so hot."

Patrick pulls away and glares at someone over Pete's shoulder. Pete looks back too, turned awkwardly to look up at the blond girl from earlier, a part of his brain supplies says _Greta,_ and he wants to die. That little thing that was bothering him, that reason why they shouldn't have been making out was that Patrick had a girlfriend; a girlfriend that was just a few feet away inside the house.

"I'm kind of busy right now," Patrick says, still looking up at Greta. Pete doesn't know what to do with that; the few times he got caught cheating - it hasn't happened since college, he hasn't _done_ it since college because he knows what it's like to get cheated on - he never reacted like that. Usually he was trying not to get his ass kicked.

Greta rolls her eyes and sighs, "It's one o'clock in the morning. I have to be at my mom's hotel by 10am. We need to go. You can play with your friend later."

Patrick grumbles but goes, kisses Pete on the cheek and says, "I'll see you later," before following Greta back toward the house.

Pete sits there confused about what the fuck just happened. Patrick didn't seem too drunk to realize what was going on and Greta didn't act like an angry jealous girlfriend and Pete can feel a headache coming on just thinking about it so he doesn't try. Instead, he goes back into the house, finds an empty guest room and goes to sleep.

*

Pete gets a full five hours of sleep at Gabe's and heads home around seven, zig zagging a path through people crashed out in sleeping bags and air mattresses in the living room. He calls Spencer and spends a little while talking to the boys about their haul for Christmas, leaves a message for his parents on their answering machine for when they wake up, and then sits around with nothing but his thoughts.

Pete is normally pretty okay with confrontation. He doesn't mind getting in someone's face to find out what the fuck is going on, but he's not doing that with Patrick when he's going back home in a week. Instead, he avoids Patrick for as long as he can, until the day before New Year's Eve. He's just not really sure what to think, if the whole make-out thing was just a drunken fluke or if Patrick is in some kind of open relationship. Pete's not really sure which would be worse.

They've both promised to be at the Midtown New Year's Eve Reunion show; Pete saw Patrick's name on the RSVP list so he knows he'll be there. And Pete knows that Gabe is willing to put up with a lot of his bullshit, will give him advice even when it's not asked for, but he's not going to let this weirdness, whatever this is between him and Patrick, fuck up Gabe's moment back in the spotlight. Even if it is kind of Gabe's fault.

Patrick shows up at the house on the 30th needing something from Brendon's studio. It's awkward and uncomfortable talking to him but Pete still follows him up into the studio. He doesn't have anything else to do and knowing that Patrick is in the house makes him sort of itchy and irritable. He'd rather have Patrick being irritating right in front of him.

"How's Greta?" Pete says, thinking _masochist masochist masochist_ at himself.

Patrick stops going through the pile of music in front of him to give Pete a weird look. He says, "She's fine. She'll be fucking pissed if I don't find this sheet, but yeah, she's good."

He sounds flustered and he's too distracted for Pete to really enjoy irritating him, but Pete continues to hang out, fluttering around Brendon's messy ass studio until Patrick finds what he's looking for. Patrick breathes out a relieved, "Fuck yes," and then tugs at his hat. "I guess that's it," Patrick says, after a brief awkward moment and then Pete's following him down the stairs, trying to figure out how the hell he can make this less awkward. Patrick isn't giving him any hints.

"You're going tomorrow, right?" Pete says, and then wants to smack himself in the face. Of course Patrick is going, he _knows_ this and he knows Patrick _knows_ he knows. But Patrick doesn't give him any sort of look this time, just nods and tugs at his hat again.

Patrick says, after a beat, "I'll be there, yes, yeah. I guess I'll see you there," and then he's gone.

Pete's anxious, restless and not in the mood to go anywhere or do anything so he ends up watching YouTube videos all day and late into the night until he has to force himself to go to bed and get a few hours sleep before the show.

The New Year's Eve show is sponsored by MTV so there are a a couple people from Laguna Beach and the Hills, and too many former contestants from the Real World/Road Rules challenges crowded around the open bar looking for trouble in the endless free drinks. Pete avoids that area like the plague; he's all for some trouble now and then but those people are fucking crazy.

He spots Patrick about twenty minutes after he arrives and the DJ is still going - Midtown isn't due to play until midnight and it's just after 11pm - playing some future one hit wonder. Patrick is hanging out with the sound guy, some blond dude with a lip ring, and when Pete turns around quick to avoid making eye contact he runs right into Greta.

"Pete, right?" Greta asks, looking him up and down. Pete feels dirty, exposed, and he wishes for a second that he hadn't turned around or even shown up at all. She doesn't wait for an answer, instead grabbing his arm and pulling him along, off toward the bathroom. She says, "We need to talk," smile all sweetness and innocence, though her eyes promise death and dismemberment.

"Uh," Pete says when Greta pushes him through the door to the ladies' room. She waits, not exactly patiently, for the two teenage girls at the mirror to leave before she locks the door. Pete's mind flashes to images of blood and guts and so much gore while Greta smiles down at him exactly the way she did only a moment ago. He really didn't mean to make out with her boyfriend; it was a total accident and he may just have to throw Patrick under the bus on this one. It's the only way he can think of to make it out alive.

"So," Greta says, hands on her hips. "Spill."

Pete stutters out an unconvincing, "I, uh, I don't know what- What do you mean?"

The look Greta gives him is one of complete incredulity and Pete forces a smile, big and fake, onto his face. Finally, though, she huffs out an annoyed breath and says, "Listen. I don't know what the hell you're doing with Patrick, but if you hurt him I promise I will end you. I will end you so hard and so fast you won't even know what happened."

"Uh," Pete says again. He knows his mouth is hanging open stupidly, but seriously. _What?_ He says, "What," again and Greta's eyes narrow. Before she says anything there's a knock on the door and Gabe says, "Greta, sweetheart, light of my life." Her face softens for a brief second and Pete thanks whatever god introduced him to Gabe Saporta. And then Greta looks back at him and says, "I mean it, Wentz. Fuck with him and suffer the consequences."

She's gone before Pete can think of a suitable response.

*

Pete doesn't see Patrick right away when he gets out of the bathroom. He almost walks into an adorable girl with blond streaks in her hair and red skinny jeans, though, and she brushes past him saying, "'Bout time," and, "The show's about to start, Gabe's totally going to kill me." She doesn't look too put-out by the prospect and Pete realizes that this is probably Cassadee.

The door swings shut behind her before he can get a name, but when Pete's two steps away it opens again. The girl sticks her head out, says, "Hey, Pete, right? There's a dude with a hat looking for you. He's pretty cute." She winks and then she's gone again. Pete sighs and thinks, 'Definitely Cassadee.'

Pete knows there's no way he could have gotten away with not showing up, ditching Gabe on his big night, and he's pretty damn excited to see Midtown play again, but he's not sure what the hell is going on with Patrick and as much as he wants to see him, he also kind of really _really_ doesn't.

Pete gets back near the stage just as Carson Daly comes on to introduce Midtown and he's hiding in the back avoiding the lights when Patrick comes up. He doesn't say anything, just stands at Pete's side all through Carson's shitty introduction and Gabe coming out on stage, throwing his hands in the air and shouting, "What's up, Los Angeles," like he's never been gone.

Halfway through the _'Another Boy'_ Patrick's fingers curl around Pete's wrist and he tugs, gently at first and then harder, insistent. It wouldn't take a lot of convincing on a normal day, but Pete's got Greta's warning running through his head and he can't decide if following Patrick would be better or worse than not following him.

Patrick says, "Pete," too loud over the music for Pete to be able to read his tone and tugs again. In the end, that's really all the convincing he needs because it's Patrick and Pete's finding he'd do a lot for Patrick, girlfriend or no.

He finds himself back at that same bathroom, though Patrick at least picks the guys' bathroom this time.

"You're avoiding me," Patrick says, and they're not beating around the bush apparently. Pete backs up a little, right back into the door, because Patrick can be distracting so close and Pete needs to think.

"You," Pete finally says, a little helplessly, "You have a girlfriend."

"What?" Patrick asks and he looks truly confused. He pushes both his hat and his glasses back on his forehead and rubs his hand over his eyes. "I haven't had a girlfriend since 2004. What the fuck are you talking about?"

Pete smiles big and bright, and says, "So you and Greta aren't?" He makes a vaguely dirty hand gesture.

Patrick sighs, clearly annoyed and says, "No jackass. Greta and I aren't -" Patrick repeats the gesture and then flips Pete off. "How are you this dumb? How?"

Pete frowns and says after a moment, "But-," and then cuts himself off, starts over. "I thought-" He stops again and goes back, trying to remember why exactly he thought Greta was Patrick's girlfriend. Eventually, he comes up with a weak, "You talk about her a lot?"

Patrick crowds Pete up against the bathroom door, close enough to almost touch. "She's my friend and we work together. I see her more than I see members of my family." Patrick runs a finger along Pete's collar, where his thorns are peaking out from under his shirt and says, "You really are stupid."

Pete hmphs and says, "Maybe but," and then leans forward and kisses him. One kiss turns into two, turns into tongue and Pete's fingers clutched in the material of Patrick's jacket as Patrick threads his fingers through Pete's too-long hair. They make out for a while, Pete almost reverently touching at as many parts of Patrick as possible, and it's not until Patrick shifts his hips that Pete goes from just fine with making out to needing _more more more_. He grinds forward, right into Patrick's space, into Patrick's dick, and can't help the moan that falls out of his mouth.

"Fuck," Pete says, and Patrick lets out this breathy little sound and says, "Hey, can I blow you?" He says it like he's maybe expecting Pete to say no even though his hands are already at Pete's waist, his fingers waiting at the belt buckle. Pete nods, a touch frantic, and Patrick grins before kissing him again, rougher than before, just a little. He bites down on Pete's lower lip and it feels amazing, the sharp bite of pain contrasting perfectly with the pleasure arcing through him.

Pete says, "Patrick," and then, "please," watching as Patrick sinks to his knees. Pete tips his head back against the door and looks up at the ceiling so he doesn't come just from the sight of Patrick down on his knees. He shifts a little as Patrick pulls down his pants and closes his eyes when Patrick wraps a hand around his dick and then licks the tip. Pete barely keeps his hips steady as Patrick sucks, lightly at first, tongue pressing firmly at a spot under the head that makes stars dance across Pete's eyelids.

Patrick sucks Pete in deeper, deep enough that Pete can feel his dick brush against the back of Patrick's throat and Pete thrusts once, this tiny involuntary snap of his hips and then he mumbles, "sorry, sorry," eyes shut tight and breath ragged. But Patrick doesn't stop. He doesn't pull back or cough or do anything but suck harder, hand moving in rhythm with his mouth. Pete can't help moaning and gripping Patrick's shoulder so he has something holding him up if his legs buckle.

Pete looks down to see Patrick's mouth, stretched red and slick and he's already close to the edge, trying to think un-sexy thoughts so he can last a little longer. But he can't stop the way Patrick's name pops out of his mouth, voice raw and low, and then Patrick looks up. His hat his pushed back so Pete can just barely see his eyes and then Patrick grips Pete's hip with one hand, pushes him hard against the door and sucks Pete in deep again. And that's all it takes for Pete to come, groaning as Patrick swallows, not letting him pull away.

Pete doesn't really have any time to recover before there's someone banging on the door. Pete doesn't care at all because _Patrick_. His mouth and his hands and his _mouth_ are all right there and Pete gets to have this over and over again.

"You motherfuckers didn't see anything, did you?" Gabe says, outraged. "We covered 'We can do it anywhere' assholes. How can you pass that shit up?" Pete grins and leans back on the door until it shuts in his face.

Patrick wipes the side of his mouth and says, "You know he's going to kill us right?"

"It was worth it." Pete says. He's still riding that post orgasm high trying to pull Patrick close so he can show off his skills.

"Yeah, it was," Patrick says, smiling. "But you're still leaving in two days so."

Pete snorts. He tries to slip his fingers into Patrick's jeans but they're way too tight so he just tugs on his belt pulling him close and says, "Fuck that. Spencer can bring me my dog, I'm keeping you."

Patrick laughs and says, "Oh yeah?"

Pete brushes light kisses on his neck and his cheek before pressing a light kiss to Patrick's mouth. Pete doesn't know where this is going and he's not sure if it'll work but he's in for the ride. He whispers, "Fuck yes," against Patrick's lips.

 _"Awesome."_

*

Spencer doesn't say much of anything on the way to the airport, but the boys are talking enough to fill the possible silence. Brendon smiles back at them, asking questions when they pause, and _hmm_ ing whenever it fits. Whenever he looks over, Spencer smiles, but it's strained, and Brendon can see everything they talked about the night before running through his head.

Brendon curves his hand around the back of Spencer's neck, thumb rubbing gently over the hairline, and says, quietly enough that the boys won't overhear, "We'll figure it out. Either way, whatever, it'll be fine." Spencer gives him a look and it's a second before it softens into a smile, a real one and not the fakes he's been trying to pass off. "It'll be fine," he says again and Spencer just nods, this time without looking over.

"Hey," Brendon says and Spencer finally just says, "I'm trying to drive, you know," but without any real heat and the curving beginning of a smile.

The trip to the airport is too short; even with Cash and Alex talking and arguing in the back it doesn't take nearly as long as Brendon wishes it would.

Brendon's not sure if he can handle the whole goodbye at the gate thing so he asks Spencer to head toward the parking lot and the shuttles, somewhere close enough that he can get a shuttle to his gate but far enough that they can get a little privacy.

Once they're parked and Brendon's got his bags piled on the ground at his feet he pulls Cash and Alex into a big hug, nodding and saying, "Yes, you know it," when Alex asks him if he's coming back to visit.

Spencer settles the boys back in the car, Alex back in his car seat since he's so little and Brendon can hear him telling them both to "be good for like five minutes, okay? I know you can do that for me."

"So," Brendon says, suddenly awkward, "March right? I mean you might change your mind or the boys might want to do something more fun than come to California with a bunch of grown ups but I mean that's the plan for now and -"

Spencer cuts him off, says, "Hey, hey, calm down." Spencer tugged on Brendon's hand, "We're gonna take things as they come right? It'll be fine."

Brendon lets Spencer pull him into a hug and buries his face in the neck of Spencer's coat for a minute, clinging more than he'd ever want to admit. Brendon pulls away first, and then leans forward again and kisses Spencer, it's just the barest brush of their lips before leaning back and smiling. "Okay. I guess I should go."

Brendon turns his phone off after he gets on the shuttle, too scared that he'll call Spencer, that he'll do something crazy and impulsive. So he keeps it off all the way the way across the Atlantic Ocean. He waits until he's back home in his big empty house, without a dog or kids or _Spencer_ , none of the things that have started to feel like home.

He turns it back on after he's sprawled across the couch trying to find something good on the Tivo and gets a picture message from Spencer. It's Spencer's bed and the message says, _"Wish you were here."_ Brendon smiles, and for the first time he knows, knows for sure that this will work and texts back, _"Soon soon soon <3."_

THE END 


End file.
